


Seasons of Love

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addict Sam Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Castiel's First Time Having Sex (Supernatural), Explicit Sex, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M, Marijuana, Musical Dean Winchester, Musical References, Neighbors, Not a Rent AU, Punk Castiel (Supernatural), Putting on a Play, RENT themes, Recovering Addict Sam Winchester, Recovering Catholic Castiel, References to Switching, Rent References, Self-Acceptance, Singer Dean Winchester, Stage manager Castiel, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural), Theater Family (Sing), Theater Nerd Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, a year in the life, as Found Family, starving artists, street performing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: When seasoned stage manager Castiel gets his down-on-his-luck new friend (who keeps popping up unexpectedly in his life at every turn) cast as the lead in his newest stage production, he never could have predicted the way that choice would change him. Letting Dean in turns out to be more difficult than Castiel thought, but doing so shows him a world that he never dared to dream of before. It's amazing what changes a year can bring.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 321
Kudos: 265
Collections: FicFacer$ 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Opening Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elanor_n_evermind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_n_evermind/gifts), [jemariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/gifts), [StardustDeanCas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StardustDeanCas/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is NOT a RENT AU, no one has AIDS, and everyone lives! It's a *theater* AU in modern-day, where they are putting on RENT as a production, and many of the themes in the show translate to their lives. Knowledge of RENT as a show/movie is not at all necessary to read (though you may enjoy the parallels more if you have). 
> 
> This fic is for (as gifted to) Elanor, Jem, and Jo (and Blu and Simon), masterminded especially by Elanor. You can look for all of them to make small cameos during the story!! Thank you guys for coming up with such an interesting, fun prompt and letting me relive my glory days of being a theater nerd (halp). 
> 
> This work is basically complete and will be posted regularly, max 1 week in between chapters to allow for the lovely [BLUE aka Blucifer](https://i-am-the-blue-sunshine.tumblr.com) to make some beautiful art!!!! Please check out her stuff and tell her how awesome she is. <3
> 
> Thank you to Jen/@coinofstone for editing, and also Miracle and Sami for doing some alpha reading and for the encouragement that this was remotely readable, lol. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, this story is told in reverse, through Castiel's eyes on Opening Night, looking back over the past year and everything they've been through. This first chapter is the set-up so it's short; chapters will be much longer going forward. :-* Love you all.

_December Twenty Fourth,_

_Nine PM, Eastern Standard Time_

“From here on in, we shoot without a script,” Gabriel declares from the center of the stage, projecting towards the audience—their very _first_ audience, ever (dress rehearsal friends and family preview aside). “See if anything comes of it—instead of my old shit.” 

Hidden just offstage in the heavy velvet curtains of the wings, Castiel bites his nails. The plastic piece of the headset that sits over his ear presses painfully into the sore that’s developed from wearing it so much. It hurts, but there’s not much Cas can do about that now. It’s more annoying than anything else, especially since he _did_ put liquid bandage on it this morning— _oh. This morning._ Castiel supposes that was more than twelve hours ago, at this point.

The entire day has been somewhat of a blur. 

“Standby company,” Castiel says into his headset. “Standby Lights two through six, Audio two and three, Scenic one.”

Squinting up at the main lighting truss, Castiel sniffs, concerned that one of the PAR cans above his head is smelling a little burned. That’s frustrating—he checked them personally not an hour prior with Charlie, and everything was fine! Under his breath, Castiel growls and glares, and the slight flickering he noticed ceases like magic. 

_Stage Manager wrath, not to be underestimated._

Good enough for now, at least until intermission.

“Lights,” Charlie confirms in his ear from her place in the booth at the back of the theater, and Castiel smiles a little. He’s damn lucky to have someone so competent on the lights and overseeing sound. As good as his audio tech Kevin is, Cas feels better knowing that Charlie’s looking over his shoulder. 

“Sound,” Kevin echoes, delayed enough that Castiel knows Charlie must have poked him. There’s a tension headache already forming behind his eyes, and they’re barely two minutes into the show. 

“On deck.” Chuck, the set designer and assistant stage manager confirms to everyone that the company is in place and ready to explode onto the stage for their opening number. 

Castiel takes a deep breath. This is it, this is everything they’ve worked for over the last year. Now that the House is full and the lights are down and Gabriel and Dean are taking dual giant breaths ready to belt their hearts out—that yes, Castiel can clock from twenty feet away—he really has no idea if they’re all ready. If they’re actually going to pull this off.

“Don’t fuck it up, Castiel,” Crowley’s voice sounds in his ear, terribly timed as usual and nearly stepping on cues for the entire cast and crew. One of these days, Castiel is actually going to strangle him. Instead, he rolls his eyes and breathes the irritation with his director away. 

Out on the stage, half-hanging from the scaffolding Chuck and Benny _just_ finished tweaking together yesterday afternoon, Dean catches his eye and winks.

_Showtime._

Castiel snaps back to attention. “Lights two, go. Audio two, go. Company, standby.” 

As the hard rock guitar chords explode with a shower of sparks that has the audience “ooh”ing right off the bat, Castiel squints and holds his breath as the platforms designating Mark and Roger’s apartment rise and shift backward, making room for the ‘street’. It goes off without a hitch, and Castiel can almost feel Crowley smirking from the back of the theater—he’s sure the smarmy bastard will have an, “I told you so,” for him after this is over. 

As if the Broadway-level construction project he’s been busting his ass to complete and make functional (and safe) with Chuck and his sketchy hired crew was ever a given. In reality, the final product is much closer to a Hail Mary that’s mostly held together with duct tape, glue, and hope, if Benny’s word is anything to go by. Maybe a _little_ prayer, even if that’s not exactly Castiel’s style these days. 

It’s been a long road, and it’s a good thing Castiel’s long-since learned not to seek satisfaction or appreciation from anyone but himself. Now, all he has to do is stay focused and not step on his own cues or miss any of the important ones, and he can do exactly that. Be proud of something he’s helped construct from scratch, something _he_ made happen. 

On stage, Dean and Gabriel (as Roger and Mark) are lighting a carefully-constructed real fire inside of a trash can. Hand gripping his own chin, Castiel winces as Dean nearly throws his zippo into the flames for the umpteenth time, silently celebrating when he catches himself at the last second and pockets it. 

Dean’s mic’d voice is crisp and clear and so beautiful—it’s very distracting. The sound sends Castiel straight back to earlier today and a stolen moment on the roof of the theater where he thinks his life might have changed. Where he _let_ himself be changed. If all goes well tonight, they’ll pull off a killer opening for an amazing show, and Castiel will finally let his best friend take him home for good. 

Castiel closes his eyes—just for a second—remembering.

_The New England air was so bitter it almost wasn’t worth tolerating, rising anxiety or no. Castiel stared out over the edge of the roof, into grey skies and softly falling snowflakes that weren’t nearly sticky or dense enough to threaten the roads (or their incoming crowd). His newly refreshed and haphazardly gelled blue hair tips ruffled in the icy breeze. The city below was bustling in typical Christmas Eve fashion—frantic shoppers dashing in and out of shops looking for last minute presents, drunks spilling out of bars, and a line for the liquor store that stretched halfway down the block._

“Later,” Dean had said, his warm breath welcome on Castiel’s chilled cheeks in the sharp winter air. “Took us long enough to get here, we can wait a little longer. We deserve that—to have the focus all on you and me, not the show, for once.”

“No day but today,” Castiel had replied cheekily, the front of Dean’s Roger-flannel (straight out of Dean’s own closet) fisted in his hand. 

Biting his lip, Dean stepped back, straightening Roger’s (also Dean’s) leather jacket, and shaking his finger in Cas’ direction. All that before turning on his heel and heading for the door that led back inside the theater. “Easy, sunshine. It’ll still be today tonight,” he called over his shoulder. 

Castiel watched him go, staring longingly after Dean’s retreating form for such a prolonged moment that the cherry of the joint he came up here to hit went out in his hand. 

_No day but today._

Castiel opens his eyes.

“Company, go,” he instructs, hearing his command echoed by Chuck in his ear as the ensemble floods onto the stage from both sets of wings for the shows titular number. 

As many times as he’s seen this before, heard Gabriel and Dean practicing here, at the Gas-N-Sip, and in both of their homes until Castiel felt like his ears might bleed, seeing it _live_ and in full-swing still makes his breath catch in his chest.

_“The music ignites the night with passionate fire._

_The narration crackles and pops, with incendiary wit._

_Zoom in as they burn the past to the ground and feel the heat of the future’s glow—”_

Dean is really something on stage. He’s stunning and charismatic in person, flirting with anything that moves and making friends in the space of a heartbeat, so in that sense, his rockstar “Roger” persona shouldn’t come as a surprise. And yet—Castiel can hardly put words to how magnetic, how _captivating_ Dean is when performing, the way he wears Roger like a second skin. 

It’s true that Dean puts the entirety of his being, his very _soul_ into everything he does (well, aside from cleaning the toilets at the Gas-N-Sip). As such, he’s become the beating heart of this show somewhere along the way. 

It took Castiel far too long and too many excessive and unnecessary protests (mostly to himself) to admit that Dean’s the center of his world, too. 

_“How do you leave the past behind, when it keeps finding ways to get to your heart?_

_It reaches way down deep and tears you inside out ‘til you're torn apart.”_

Try as he might to focus strictly on the show, the cues, and _only_ his copious number of responsibilities to such for the time being, Castiel can’t help but falter. Watching Dean sing, watching the entire production come together—it takes him _back,_ makes him nostalgic for the road they took to get here.

Seems like tonight, Castiel is in for a trip down memory lane, whether he’s ready for that or not.

One more slow breath (and a deep, deep wish for another hit from that joint) and, _Here we go,_ Castiel thinks.

_“‘Cause everything is…RENT.”_


	2. Tango: Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There were five major moments that factored into Dean becoming a fixture in Castiel’s life. It wasn’t an instant thing or even a straight shot, not in the least. A split-second decision here, a missed bus or forgotten keyring there, and perhaps their paths would never have converged at all. And yet somehow, against every odd, they did._
> 
> _Or perhaps there is something to be credited to destiny, after all is said and done._
> 
> _Castiel’s not ruling anything out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg Blue's art for this chapter...I'm SO happy that particular scene was brought to life, it's a little bit of a callback to Dean tap dancing in his anesthesia dream... *cough* There are a lot of other canon references that start in this chapter and, i hope you can see what that might be leading up to....
> 
> Anyway, look for Ms. Elanor to show up in this update. ;) 
> 
> Warnings for mentions of drug use (Sam), Cas smokes pot, minor violence and injuries (less graphic than canon).

There were five major moments that factored into Dean becoming a fixture in Castiel’s life. It wasn’t an instant thing or even a straight shot, not in the least. A split-second decision here, a missed bus or forgotten keyring there, and perhaps their paths would never have converged at all. And yet somehow, against every odd, they did. 

Or perhaps there is something to be credited to destiny, after all is said and done. 

Castiel’s not ruling anything out. 

***

The first time Castiel sees Dean, he’s just trying to get home. It’s mid-November and _freezing,_ and Crowley hadn’t let him turn the heat in the studio complex they work out of up any higher than what it would take to keep the pipes unfrozen. Ten hours of sitting side-by-side with _Crowley,_ sorting out _logistics_ while Castiel’s fingers threatened to leave him for warmer climates hasn’t left him in the best mood, that’s for sure.

“Cheap bastard,” Castiel mumbles under his breath. His teeth chatter no matter how tightly he pulls the worn, ratty coat he’s wearing across his chest, and he’s sure that his lips are at least slightly blue, even with his face tucked down into his scarf. Feet nearly completely numb (why wouldn’t they be), Cas trips hurriedly through the depths of South Boston towards the tiny loft apartment he shares with his roommate, Gabriel. 

Lining the block before his are a strip of dark, iron-gated shops interspersed with neon-lit, rowdy bars. Drunks are the last thing Castiel wants to deal with after a full day of strategizing and planning for their newest musical with Crowley, so he keeps his head down as he hustles by. Usually, most of the patrons that linger outside—smoking and socializing despite the cold—are too intoxicated and wrapped up in their own affairs to even notice him, but there are always a few idiots.

Castiel knows that his punk look—especially his eyebrow piercing and his blue-tipped dark hair—are a bit strange for this part of town. Especially late at night—this area is for off-duty firefighters and cops, clean-cut and either jacked or fat (absolutely no in-between), scantily clad women, Red Sox shirts, newsboy caps, gold chains, and leather. 

Tonight, he receives a few mocking catcalls followed by jeering laughs, but they roll right off of his shoulders as he presses on. Perhaps he’d stop and lean into one of the crass offers tossed his way, just to make the asshole yelling it out as uncomfortable as possible. Lucky for them, Castiel’s attention is stolen before he can focus for long enough to come up with something witty to reply.

Partway down the block is a man he’s never seen before, _dancing_ and singing his heart out to a small but quickly gathering crowd. He’s soft-shoeing away atop a flattened piece of cardboard, perhaps three feet by three feet with deep creases etched through the middle that suggest this performance isn’t its first rodeo. Behind him sits a battered little CD player on a crate, sounding and looking like it’s one good bass pulse away from disintegrating into dust right before their eyes.

Curious, Castiel slows his walk as he approaches, admiring the way the man twists and pirouettes smoothly on one foot before dropping to a crouch and hopping nimbly back up again. He wears only jeans, a flannel, and an unbuttoned canvas jacket—no scarf, hat, or mittens despite the chill. Castiel shivers just watching him, knowing how cold _he_ is out here, and he has all of those things. 

Even with his bright red nose and cheeks and equally reddened fingers, the man is almost preternaturally attractive. Pale, freckled skin and stylishly gelled hair, he has green eyes that crinkle and sparkle as he engages with and teases his audience. 

He’s a performer—belting the lyrics to Stevie Nicks’ “Stand Back,” (of all things) without missing a beat and encouraging his fans to sing along. He smiles and bites his tongue, runs hands over his body as he rolls his hips and encourages the crowd to cheer. And he’s _good._

__

In addition to singing and dancing, the compelling performer also scoops up drumsticks from the ground. Alternately using them to bang a beat onto the brick wall behind him and onto two overturned buckets to his left, his movements are smooth and flawless in spite of the cold. Castiel, for his part, feels as if he moves too quickly, his frozen limbs might actually shatter. 

But more importantly—from the first moment Castiel sees this man, he’s hooked. There’s something about him, a charisma oozing from every pore that makes it hard to look away. From the assorted mess of people his show has managed to attract (many who throw dollar bills into the open guitar case at his feet), Cas isn’t the only one who feels it. Everything about him is beautiful—the way he looks, the way he moves, the way his voice warms the empty night. Even the clouds his breath puffs into the frigid air add to the effect, making it all feel somewhat magical. 

Somewhere around Stevie crooning about needing sympathy, the man looks over and catches Castiel’s eye. He winks, and Cas’ mouth goes completely dry. The song is ending, and if Castiel were a braver man, he’d stay and find out if that was just a wink, or the potential for something more. 

He didn’t wind up a nearly thirty-year-old virgin by being brave, though, so he swallows hard and turns on his heel, bolting for home. The man’s melodic voice fades swiftly into the darkened cold behind him. 

The second time Castiel sees Dean, he runs right into him. 

It’s been over a week since that night Cas was hurrying home from the studio, and now he’s hurrying back in the opposite direction, late for the first day of auditions. At the grey crack of dawn, November in Boston is no more pleasant than the harsh middle of the night, though his journey through the city will be much more urgent. 

Crowley certainly won’t hold the start time simply because his stage manager isn’t there, which means that if Castiel doesn’t move his ass, they could end up with another “Crowley’s ex-as Eponine” disaster situation. The casting decision that nearly collapsed their 2015 production of _Les Mis_ still haunts Castiel to this day. Lilith couldn’t dance and she definitely couldn’t sing, and no amount of therapy or mental repression will ever allow Castiel to recover from the horror of witnessing her butcher “On My Own” from between his fingers and with a major theater critic seated right in the front row.

So if he’s rushing to get out the front door of his building as quickly as possible, that’s nothing short of understandable. There’s a bus route that stops basically at his stoop and goes directly downtown. If Castiel can catch the one currently screeching to a halt in the street, he might still be able to make it to the theater in time. Or, at least before Crowley manages to enact any terrible decisions that’ll have him regretting working alongside the bastard again to begin with. 

Truly, if Crowley wasn’t so well-connected, Castiel would just blow him off. Unfortunately, the reality is that the man has tenterhooks sunk into nearly everyone in the Boston theater scene. Saying no to a request from Crowley—especially to be his right hand—would be career suicide. On the positive side, he does pay Castiel a weekly stipend, which is more than most community theaters do for their stage managers ( _servants)_. And he _does_ have a knack for showmanship. When Crowley’s productions work, they’re spectacular to witness.

Still stuffing the last of his notebooks into his shoulder bag—the ones containing pages and pages he’s meticulously collected of Crowley’s hopes and dreams, wants and demands for _RENT—_ Castiel’s hardly paying attention to what’s in front of him. He blows through the peeling-paint, broken-tiled “lobby” of his building like a tornado, smacking into the exterior doors with enough force that the tired hinges rattle threateningly. 

The burst of cold air from outside is disrupted when the door rams into something solid, something that grunts and goes stumbling backward. Castiel startles too, his last notebook slipping from his hands and going flying, unsecured papers previously tucked inside scattering haphazardly over the concrete steps. Barely regaining his balance in time to stop himself from falling down after them, Castiel swears under his breath and scrambles to grab the pages back before the wind can take them. 

Like something out of a play or a seedy romance novel, he and whoever he knocked to the ground reach for a stapled packet of set design sketches at exactly the same time. Their hands brush softly, fingers accidentally entangling. Castiel pulls his back as if the man’s skin is burning hot _(it’s cold)_ , only to look up into the _greenest_ pair of eyes he’s ever seen. His mind goes blank, tripped up by a face that’s just as preternaturally handsome as it was marred by shadows in the middle of the night. 

“I think you dropped these,” the face says with a devilish little smirk. Green-Eyes waves Castiel’s papers teasingly in front of him, probably trying to break the awkward staring game they’ve accidentally started. 

Blinking and grimacing from embarrassment, Castiel accepts the papers with murmured thanks. He jams them roughly back into his notebook and the book into his bag, standing up just in time to see the bus arrive on those eternally squeaky brakes. Because this is clearly not his day, the bus barely stops before swiftly pulling away again when no one is waiting at the sign. 

“Oh—fuck me,” Castiel groans. Green-Eyes follows his gaze to watch the bus melting away into traffic, making a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat before resuming directing an unnatural amount of attention towards Castiel. Even out of the corner of Castiel’s eye, he can see the man’s smirk intensify.

“I was thinking more along the lines of dinner and drinks, but hey, if you’re game, I’m up for some fun.” 

“What?” Castiel snaps, whipping his head away from staring after the bus and back to the man that’s still inexplicably _there._

“Joke, sunshine,” he says easily, the crinkles next to his eyes deepening as he winks. It’s disconcerting—this man is _very_ charming and Castiel is... _not._ “Somewhere important you have to be right now? ‘Cause I gotta say, if it buys me a few extra minutes to try and get your number, I might have to buy that bus driver a coffee.” 

Fussing with his bag just for something— _anything—_ to do with his hands— _God, what are hands?!—_ Castiel stills, wondering if he’s misheard. Or worse, if the ridiculously attractive man he half-assaulted and nearly sent to the emergency room is mocking him. When he risks a glance up to check, he finds the man leaning against the railing of the stairs Castiel threw him down, arms folded across his chest and grinning in amusement. 

“I’m Dean, by the way,” he says good-naturedly. 

Alright, perhaps he’s not mocking, but there’s absolutely _no_ way _Dean_ is actually flirting. With _Castiel._ This man would be better suited to an underwear ad campaign on the side of that bus, while Castiel is barely qualified to ride. 

“Um, hello,” Castiel says hesitantly. He shuffles his feet a little. Half of him still desperately wants to bolt after the bus, to try and catch it at the next stop, but the other half is far too curious about why this man is still _talking_ to him. “I’m Castiel...Cas.” He flounders, grasping for what to say next—he’s never been good at small talk, worse at flirting. “You’re that street dancer.” It comes out almost like an accusation, and Castiel immediately hates himself. 

But Dean just laughs, a shiny, bright sound that makes Castiel want to fold him up and put him in his pocket. He can’t help but crack a smile in return, and that only seems to encourage Dean further. “Oooh, Cas. You make it sound so dirty—I love it. Sweetheart, my lap dancing days are behind me, but I can definitely make an exception for a, uh, private showing. This whole Henry Rollins look you got going is...” He flashes a thumbs up instead of finishing his sentence and Castiel finds his mouth akin to the Sahara once again. 

Dean makes no attempt to hide the way he’s scanning Castiel’s body as he drops that remark. His admiration and interest is open and brazen in a way that you have to have a _thick_ skin and a mean right hook to do in South Boston, but Dean seems perfectly comfortable with who he is. That alone draws Castiel in, makes him want to know more, and yet—

He flushes. “I’ve seen you,” he mutters clumsily, gripping the strap of his bag that much tighter. “You’re very talented.” 

The lip Dean has pulled in between his teeth stays there as his smile widens. “Better believe it, sweetheart. In more ways than one. So what do you say, take me out for a drink sometime? Take me in? I’m not picky. Hey, I can bring the Ramen. How about it, blue eyes?” 

Finally letting his nerves and inferiority complex get the better of him, Castiel stumbles the rest of the way down the steps, averting his eyes to the dirty sidewalk. “I—I shouldn’t,” he says apologetically. “I’m not—um, you wouldn’t be interested in me.” 

Despite that, as Castiel trips over his own feet in an effort to get away, Dean calls after him, “Dude, I’m totally interested!” And then, “Okay, Blue Eyes. Let me know if you change your mind about the Ramen—I’m flush!” 

Cas keeps his head down and his eyes forward as he near-flees the scene, but he can’t stop himself from smiling. 

Even still, once he finally makes it to the theater, Castiel finds out that the world apparently isn’t done poking him in his too-big heart. The first audition of the day that he sits down to watch sings “One Song Glory,” and it hits a little too close to home for Castiel’s liking. 

_One song, a song about love—_

_Glory, from the soul of a young man._

Castiel shakes it off. Life is not a musical number, and Dean is not the Mimi to his Roger. He may have come a hell of a long way since his buttoned-up days as a Catholic school kid, an altar boy who prayed and kneeled and followed all of the _rules_ without question, but those things leave scars, deep ones. 

While Castiel may do as he pleases now, living the “Heathen life” his parents once warned about, he continues to struggle with really letting go. Tattoos, piercings, dying his hair—it’s fun, it’s freeing, but it’s all superficial. The real changes he’s wrought have come from within, but similarly, that’s where the hangups remain, too. 

These days, Castiel sows good wherever he can. Not because a book of stories tells him he must, but for no other reason than it feels right to try and help others. Everyone deserves to have basic dignity and respect, to not be hungry or cold or lonely. Castiel knows this, knows that he’s part of that, that he deserves good things too—just by nature of being a human being.

And yet, he fights letting himself have those things that he desires, fights exploring any of those inclinations at all. Castiel tells himself he’s perfectly fine with his life the way that it is, that it’s _enough,_ but inwardly, he knows that’s a lie. And now this man— _Dean_ —one look and he has Castiel wanting to step away from that door he’s been fighting to hold closed for so damn long.

Dean is dangerous. His mere existence awakens things that Castiel has worked exceptionally hard to keep buried. 

And isn’t the knowing the hardest part? Castiel thinks so. He _knows_ he’s gay, has long-since come to terms with it. He knows that being lgbtq+ is not a sin, that _if_ God exists at all, he certainly didn’t create a bunch of mistakes. Made in his image means _everyone._ There’s no “gay panic” here, just... _fear._ Anxiety. There’s that inferiority complex again, all tied up with the extreme embarrassment of the burden of inexperience.

What it comes down to, is that there’s a difference between _knowing_ and Castiel allowing himself the freedom to simply _be._  
  
 _Find glory, beyond the cheap colored lights._

_One song, before the sun sets._

Castiel just doesn’t see that happening for him. And yet—when his mind is quiet, he can’t stop thinking about _Dean._

***

The third time Castiel sees Dean, the circumstances are not so light-hearted, and his own inner struggles are the last thing on his mind. 

It’s two in the morning, and Castiel can’t sleep. His mind is running a mile a minute, turning over everything he needs to do in order to get the early stages of their production on track. Within the next two days, he needs to settle on hiring a construction crew for the sets and approve Chuck’s hastily-drawn blueprints. He has to talk Crowley down from viewing any of the local college-owned theaters (none of which he’s been able to con anyone into renting him yet) like a Broadway stage, _and_ make sure it all comes in under budget. There are pyrotechnics and local laws regarding such to research and consider, permits to apply for, and a _million_ other things Castiel probably hasn’t even thought of yet.

They’re working with a new costumer this time as well, and Castiel was unfortunately (for his sanity) unable to dissuade Crowley from hiring his _mother_ to do the show’s choreography. This development is potentially a worse scenario than the Lilith one—Castiel would almost prefer the latter. 

The thing is, Crowley and his mother Rowena are nearly constantly at each other’s throats, and that’s on a good day. In fact, if they _are_ getting along, better watch out. More than likely, it’s because they’re up to no good. In Castiel’s experience, the two of them only seem to be able to be civil when they’ve identified a mutual enemy to annihilate. If they’re not bickering or trying to pull one over on said enemy (probably him), they’ll be competing to undermine each other, just for kicks. 

Castiel isn’t one to judge when it comes to messed-up family dynamics—he certainly has no room to do so. However, the two of them take the word “dysfunctional” to an entirely new level. Most days, Castiel isn’t sure whether to be terrified or impressed.

Still, just like her son, when Rowena pulls off a scene the way she envisions it in her head, it’s nothing short of jaw-dropping. Castiel just hopes the stress and the bald spot he’s going to give himself from pulling on his (increasingly greying and therefore more expensive to dye blue) hair will be worth it. 

The real problem hanging over his head right now, though, is nothing to do with any of that. It’s the show’s lack of a “Roger,” a leading man. No one who’s auditioned has been _quite_ right. As of now, Crowley has some cocky young asshole named Cole lined up for the part, but Castiel knows a mistake when he sees one. Roger has to carry a huge portion of the show’s emotional storyline. He has to draw your eye, has to hold your attention with a charismatic look, effortless sex appeal, and must crush the songs with his gorgeous rock-n-roll voice. 

Cole is just... _meh._

And so, Castiel lies awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling and wracking his brain for ideas. His room is chilly—their funds are low and therefore so is the heat—necessitating Castiel’s habit of sleeping in several layers of sweats and socks. Most nights it’s hard to drift off because of that _(oh, to be rich and naked in bed)_ , but tonight, it’s definitely his churning brain.

He thinks and thinks and comes up empty.

Castiel’s mental Rolodex of currently project-less actors has already been fairly exhausted, though to be fair, many of the people he’d suggest are already in the show. Gabriel, for instance (not just a roommate but Castiel’s best friend) is playing Mark. Mark is the co-lead, a nerdy filmmaker with impeccable comedic timing who’s recently been dumped by his girlfriend-turned-lesbian. Gabriel’s going to knock the role out of the park, and he deserves someone more compelling than boring old _Cole_ to play off of. 

Sighing, Castiel gives up on sleep completely, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and letting his triple-socked feet make contact with the freezing cement floor. _That_ evokes a shiver that zips mercilessly through his whole body. It’s almost (but not quite) enough to send him scurrying back under the puffy yellow comforter he found still-sealed in its original packaging at Goodwill last year. 

That was like Christmas—well, the way Christmas must be for people with families and cash, anyway.

Yawning, Castiel quickly packs a bowl and grabs his lighter, shuffling out of his room and across the open-concept loft space. Gabriel’s bed is in the far corner of the main room, cordoned off by several shower curtains hung from iron pipes suspended from the ceiling. Lucky for Castiel, Gabriel could not care less about privacy, illustrated by the fact that his “room” is bordered on two sides by giant windows. Both of which look directly out and into someone else’s house across the way. 

Castiel snorts when he thinks about the fact that Gabriel likely scars their neighbors on a daily basis. To the chorus of Gabriel’s sleep-mumbling, he quietly lifts the sash on one of the other windows and slips out onto the fire escape. Gabriel sleeps on, oblivious. 

There’s a blanket that Castiel keeps folded and stashed just under the sill for this very purpose, and he grabs it as he ducks outside. Shaking it open, he pulls diagonal corners tightly around his shoulders, hoping to keep his body heat in. The fabric is cold, but anything is a help against the biting Boston winter air. He lights up, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in his lungs until it burns. By the time he’s exhaling, the THC is already hitting his bloodstream, burning off his anxiety as it goes. 

Humming happily and watching the smoke swirl off into the inky dark as he exhales it away, Castiel sighs and leans over the railing, assessing the goings-on below. His bare wrist grazes the icy iron, and Castiel quickly jerks it back inside the blanket, stung.

His and Gabriel’s apartment is only three floors up, so the fire escape isn’t a terrible place to do some people-watching. Observing other humans is one of Castiel’s favorite relaxing pastimes, though he knows enough not to admit that to just anyone. With the popular smattering of cheap bars and endless buildings full of working-class (and not-so-lucky) folk nearby, the street below is practically always good for it, even at two in the morning. 

Tonight, however, it’s fairly devoid of activity—a bartender hurrying home here, a homeless woman pushing a shopping cart there. Not terribly shocking—it _is_ a Tuesday in the middle of December, and last call at the bars was nearly an hour ago. All things considered, Castiel tries not to feel too disappointed. He hangs out on the fire escape for a while anyway, taking a few more slow hits and just enjoying the relative peace. 

That contemplative quiet shatters abruptly with the slamming open of a heavy door below, followed immediately by the sound of angry voices. No—not angry, _upset._ Definitely upset. Intrigued (hey, he’s high, awake against his will, and bored), Castiel leans far over the edge, pulling his blanket more tightly around him to shield against the cold wind as he searches for the source of the drama. 

The banging door appears to be the one that leads into his own building, and isn’t that interesting? Castiel doesn’t know much about his neighbors, isn’t one for socializing, not that he’s home enough to do so. His time is monopolized by Crowley and shifts at the Gas-N-Sip, which are what really pay for this dump to begin with. 

Sure, Castiel has a roommate, but Gabriel’s got his own problems. He works his ass off bartending and moonlighting as a janitor at the theater, but even still, he’s worse off than Castiel when it comes to cash. More months than not, Gabriel’s stuck choosing between affording his insulin or his half of the rent, and Castiel isn’t a monster. They’re in this together, they’re all each other has—them, and the rest of their theater family, but he’s found a kindred spirit with Gabriel in particular. 

Both the black sheep of their respective families, both brought up extremely religious to be party-line-towing little Catholic angels. Both of them rejected by those same families, the same Church for their sexualities, their interest in the arts, their persistent _questioning_ and disinterest in conforming. Raised to be an equally obedient soldier, Gabriel understands in an extremely particular way what it’s like to rebel—and rebel _hard—_ just as soon as the opportunity presents itself. He understands what it’s like to have no regrets but to miss a family (who hates you for daring to be yourself) all the same. 

Point being, Castiel is happy to carry Gabriel financially when he needs it—but his life leaves precious little time for socializing outside of his circle. Definitely not conducive to baking brownies and arranging welcome wagons for new tenants in his building. 

He _does_ know that the other two occupants of the mirror apartment on his own floor are both elderly and infirm, rarely leaving their place. _That_ Castiel makes time for, frequently stretching his already meager meals in order to share with Mildred Baker and her grumpy, rarely-seen roommate. Still, sharing is what poor people do, it’s almost expected—but Castiel would hardly call those two his _friends._

He knows as well that there’s a family with what sounds like a herd of elephants living above him, several similar below, and that the only empty unit in the building (directly underneath him and Gabriel) was rented several months ago. Only then because the name “Winchester” appeared on the previously vacant mailbox in the frustrated, scrawled capital letters of someone who got tired of waiting for the super to do anything useful. 

Perhaps Castiel should have connected those dots when he’d run into Dean that day on the front steps, but again, he doesn’t generally put much thought into his neighbors or what they’re doing, barring a crisis. Castiel’s all-too-willing to share the little he and Gabriel have with anyone who needs it, but being broke is exhausting and all-consuming in and of itself. 

So when he looks over the edge of the fire escape and sees Dean’s sandy head of hair chasing a taller, shaggy-haired younger man, Castiel’s jaw drops in surprise. There’s a sense of urgency surrounding them both, an energy that’s tight and anxious, and it makes the hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck stand-up. Something isn’t right down there.

The taller man is yanking on a ratty winter jacket as he skips down the steps ahead of Dean. As Dean rushes after, Castiel pushes aside the feeling of being a creeper, finding himself unable to look away, even if he is intruding on something private. 

“Sam,” Dean calls, “Sammy, please.” He grabs at the sleeve of Sam’s jacket, trying to hold him back, to stop him. “Don’t do this, Sam, c’mon, I can—I’m working on it, we’ll get you some better help. You don’t _need_ this shit, man, please.”

For a second, Sam hesitates, and even from several floors above, Castiel can see the way his whole arm is shaking as he raises it to press a palm against his face. Dean doesn’t let go of his jacket, but the reprieve is temporary as Sam shakes him loose and takes off at a near-sprint down the street. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing around a corner and into an ally. A shiver goes through Castiel that has nothing to do with the cold—he’s witnessed this kind of scene plenty of times in this part of town.

Sam’s an addict, looking for a fix.

Below him, Dean has both hands fisted in his hair, pacing helplessly in a circle around where Sam once stood. Even barely knowing the man, Castiel feels deeply for him. Whoever _Sam_ is to Dean, he’s clearly very important, and Castiel can practically feel Dean’s grief that he’s slipping through his fingers. 

Sadly, it’s an all-too-common situation, in Castiel’s experience. Drugs run like water here, the people selling them rarely the villains in the story, more opportunists who are as hard up and desperate as anyone else. If he had to guess, from the way Sam was shaking, he and Dean had made an attempt to detox him on their own—an attempt that failed miserably. 

Also not uncommon, since the only thing more lacking than empathy for people like Castiel and the Winchesters are actual resources. 

As Castiel prepares to retreat into the shadows, Dean turns miserably away from where he’s been staring down the empty street. Raising his gaze, he catches Castiel’s eye where he’s still leaning over the railing, and Castiel’s heart clenches in his chest. Dean’s tear-streaked face is the absolute picture of despair, but it’s not as if there’s anything Castiel can do for him. 

Somewhat feebly, he raises a hand, half in greeting, half understanding and Dean nods, sucking in a breath before violently wiping the pain on his face away. When he surfaces again, there’s only fierce determination left behind. Dean steadfastly avoids Castiel’s gaze as he makes his way back inside, but Castiel can’t stop seeing those green eyes burning into his, long after Dean is gone. 

***

The fourth time Castiel sees Dean, the man’s circumstances haven’t improved any. It’s the wrong side of sunrise on a Gas-N-Sip day, and Castiel is once again late. The store opens at six, which means Castiel is expected shortly after five-thirty to get things up and running. He’s never been a morning person (not that you’d know it for how often he’s out and about before dawn) and that never seems to get better, no matter how hard he works to adjust. 

At least the coffee at the Gas-N-Sip is free, a thought that warms and comforts Castiel as he sets off down the street in the frostbitten pre-dawn dark. He’ll require at least three cups to be semi-functional, having stayed up until nearly midnight listing to Crowely complain about their continued (lack of) Roger prospects. They’ve done a couple of chemistry reads with Cole opposite both Gabriel and Pam (the talented singer playing Mimi) with lukewarm results. 

At this point, even Crowley is willing to admit that Cole is not going to work. Problem being, no one else suitable has auditioned, and Crowley is threatening to dig into his personal owed-favor list, just to at least get _something_ out of a necessary lackluster casting choice. 

Over Castiel’s dead body. Roger is _pivotal._ Might as well pack it in on the whole show, if they’re going to do that. 

Lost in thought, Castiel is once again nearly on top of Dean before he notices him. Unfortunately, this time, it’s not a humorous little meet-cute or even an awkward personal moment Castiel has no business being a part of (and can skate away from quickly). 

No, this time, Dean is being held up against the brick wall of the closed storefront he likes to dance in front of by a drunken, burly man. The man is sporting a newsboy cap, a beard, and a gross leer smeared across his face, a South Boston cliché if Castiel’s ever seen one. Dean’s scowling and his fists are balled at his sides, but Castiel can see that his attacker has a knife pointed at the exposed skin of Dean’s throat, and this is the kind of man who won’t think twice about using it. 

Beardy’s two buddies are laughing and carrying on as they collect Dean’s spoils and gear. That includes his battered little boom box and an acoustic guitar out of its case, both laying upended on the sidewalk. The case itself sports a meager assortment of coins and dollar bills, Dean’s earnings for the entire night. It looks—from where Castiel is standing—pretty pitiful, but it’s still _his,_ and this is still a very bad situation, indeed _._

“Run along, punk,” Beardy says when Castiel slows down on the sidewalk behind his back. In response, Castiel sighs, pausing to lift the shoulder strap of the messenger bag he’s wearing up over his head to the opposite shoulder so that it’s not as easily grabbed or dropped. It’s very possible that he’s going to regret this, but it’s not like Castiel to ignore someone being mistreated.

Violence, on the other hand, isn’t something he enjoys resorting to. However, desperate times. These are, after all, precisely the circumstances for which he allowed Gabriel to teach him to fight. Or more accurately—under which he taught him to _win._

Without so much as a warning, Castiel steps cleanly between the two men purloining Dean’s possessions while crouched on the sidewalk, grabbing each of their heads in one hand and knocking them together. 

“Hey!” Beardy interjects, only moments before he’s sent stumbling sideways and away from Dean, shoved unceremoniously off-balance by the dizzy lackey Castiel tosses in his direction. It’s a bit of a calculated risk, but Castiel’s seen Dean’s stature, his build—even if it’s usually hidden under layers of flannel and leather. He’s _fairly_ confident in his assessment that Dean’s the kind of man who can take care of himself, only ever caught because his attackers aren’t the sort to play fair. 

Still, Castiel keeps half an eye on Dean as he grabs the wrist of the lackey he didn’t send flying as the man charges towards him again. Mistake—Castiel snaps his wrist easily as he yanks it around and up against his back—leaving Number Three down on his knees on the cold concrete, howling like a toddler whose milk has been taken away.

“Has no one ever taught you not to start things that you can’t finish?” Castiel mutters, wiping his palm against his jeans. Number Three’s buddy is back, and since Dean is very capably beating the crap out of Beardy’s face, Castiel lets Two throw a few punches, just for fun. He blocks each one easily, parrying Two’s fists left and right before finally taking an opening and cold-clocking him across one tattooed cheek. 

Two goes down like a stone just as Dean’s standing back up, breathing heavily. Beardy stays down, twitching and groaning into his sleeve.

“Come on,” Castiel says, shoving Dean’s guitar back into its case and helping him quickly gather his other items. Half-stunned, Dean clutches his little boombox to his heaving chest with bloodied fists. He blinks up at Castiel, gaze darting between him and each man on the ground, like he’s unsure what to do next.

“Come _on,_ ” Castiel repeats. With the hand not holding the guitar case, he tugs on Dean’s jacket, urging him away in the direction of the Gas-N-Sip that’s just down the street. Glancing around furtively as they go, Castiel’s relieved to find that no one is around or seems to be watching. On the other hand, there are tons of windows and balconies above their heads, and one never knows. 

Although, even _if_ someone was looking on, It’s unlikely they would care enough to call the police. Not in a neighborhood like this, and _especially_ not for recognizable thugs like the three Castiel and Dean just overpowered. In fact, if any onlookers saw Dean being attacked and chose to remain in the shadows, it’s doubtful they’d get involved now, simply for his attackers’ sake. More likely, they’ll consider Castiel’s work a service to the neighborhood and think no more about it.

But again, better safe than sorry. 

At the Gas-N-Sip doors, Castiel fumbles his keys with half-numb hands that are usually kept in warm pockets during the walk to and from work. It’s as his fingers are struggling to function that Dean retrieves his guitar almost guiltily and attempts to slink away with a mumbled word of thanks, clearly embarrassed. With some slightly patronizing coaxing that Dean obviously resents, Castiel eventually convinces him to come inside. Dean says it’s only because those men are still out there, and almost certainly lurking between where they are and the relative safety of his apartment, but Castiel sees him eyeing up the coffee machine hopefully. 

Castiel’s manager is a nice woman, and she rarely shows up before ten a.m., so he seats Dean behind the counter without fear. After giving him a pint of ice cream to hold onto the blooming bruise around his right eye, Castiel runs through the rote motions of getting the store up and running in record time. Setting the industrial coffee machine to brew first, the soothing scent of roasted beans begins to fill the little store. 

By the time the rollers are heated and turning, the Slurpee machine is kicking into high gear, and the nacho cheese is melting in its supersized warmer, Dean is slumped over on the counter, half-asleep. 

After pouring them both an oversized coffee, Castiel sidles up to Dean cautiously, sliding the styrofoam cup and some fixings in front of him. Dean jerks upright with a start, blinking— _adorably—_ into the store’s fluorescent lights and yawning.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “Usually sacked out by now. Not used to being this warm and not under four blankets, one of ‘em electric.” 

Nodding sagely, Castiel takes a sip from his cup. “The heating in our building does leave something to be desired, even when it isn’t being turned off for non-payment.” 

Dean snorts and takes his own (sizable) gulp, sighing happily. “You can keep your company car and your quarterly bonuses. _These_ are the perks I’m after in a job, sweetheart. You _absolutely_ sure you’re not lookin’ for a sugar baby? ‘Cause honestly, I’d do just about anything for hot coffee on tap.” Dean’s comment is charming, teasing, everything Castiel’s known Dean to be up until this point, but it comes out somewhat flat today. Somewhat tired, like his facade is cracking, just a little. 

Before Castiel can reply, though, Dean winces and touches his hand to the back of his ear, fingers coming away more bloody than they already are. “Fuck,” Dean curses. 

“Here, let me—” Castiel pulls a first-aid kit from beneath the counter, setting it on top and unsnapping its lid. He motions for Dean to swivel on his chair, which at first, Dean simply raises one eyebrow at and remains still. Castiel responds in kind, staring back unflinchingly until Dean relents, sighing and shifting to his left with an epic roll of his eyes. 

The quarters behind the checkout counter are tight, and Castiel can’t help but feel his pulse quicken at being in such close proximity to Dean. Through all of his insecurities and reservations, there’s no doubt that Dean does things to him. If Castiel were braver, bolder, if he had something to _offer—_

 _Actually,_ he thinks, _perhaps there is something._

The cut just below Dean’s ear must be from the knife that was held to his throat. It’s superficial, and only oozing because Dean touched it, upsetting the clot that formed. Nonetheless, Castiel dabs at the wound with some peroxide and antibiotic cream before applying a small bandage and calling it good. He does the same with Dean’s knuckles, working efficiently and trying not to touch the other man more than is necessary. Although, his efforts in that department are essentially for nothing—they’re basically on top of each other, the way the space forces their bodies together. 

Lottery tickets rustle beneath the breeze of the little fan clipped above Castiel’s head, and he’s suddenly one hundred percent _sure_ that Dean can hear the ridiculously loud, nervous swallowing he’s doing. _How embarrassing._

But Dean keeps silent and doesn’t tease, his eyes averted and focused off somewhere to Castiel’s left. All that’s in his sightline are “Missing” and “Help Wanted” posters, ads and promotions, plus the wall of cigarettes and chewing tobacco that stretches nearly from ceiling to counter. 

“Do you smoke?” Castiel asks, just to cut the silence. Awaiting Dean’s reply, he tosses his trash and reassembles the kit to stick it back where it belongs.

“What?” Dean replies distractedly. “Oh, uh—I mean, who doesn’t, when everyone else is, right?” Castiel just smiles and shrugs, and Dean falters. “Well I should—I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks again, Cas. You know, for the rescue. And the coffee, and the patch job.” 

Dean’s freckled cheeks go pink and Castiel has the bizarre urge to _cup them, what is wrong with him?_ He manages to fight that instinct down fairly easily, but Dean is standing and leaving, and Castiel just—he doesn’t want him to go, not yet. Dean is attractive and interesting and—Castiel _might_ have some ulterior motives here, but also, he’s pretty sure that he can help.

“Dean,” he starts, as Dean steps down and moves around the counter, facing Castiel from the other side. “The street performing. Why do you—”

“I have to,” Dean answers quietly, quickly enough that Castiel suspects he’s been waiting for the question. “My mechanic gig at the garage got cut last month, not enough work. Bartending hours are nonexistent if you don’t know the right people. No one’s fuckin’ looking to hire a dude like me. I got a GED and a give ‘em hell attitude and that’s just—it’s not enough, right now. I should...I should do _more,_ ” Dean adds, somewhat angrily, his fist curling tight against the counter. “I know you saw us the other night. Me and my brother.” 

Dean’s green eyes go glassy, but he manages to blink back the emotion that bubbles up there. “He needs my help, Cas,” he continues, a lot more quietly. “Sam’s my responsibility. And rehab—even the shit ones are fucking expensive, you know? They’re goddamn out of reach for a guy like me. And Sam—Sam deserves better. I gotta find a way to give it to him, whatever it takes.” 

At that, Dean pauses, wiping the back of his sleeve across his nose, and Castiel feels somewhat lost at sea. This Dean—what Castiel suspects is the _real_ Dean—is deep, _intense,_ passionate in a way that Castiel is unfamiliar with seeing offstage. He’s raw and real, and Castiel is... _mousy,_ in comparison.

“I was only going to suggest that you stay,” Castiel says, reaching out but stopping short of touching Dean’s hand. He draws back as Dean looks up at him in confusion. “Here.” 

“Uh—”

“What I mean is,” Castiel continues hastily, twining his fingers together anxiously. “Elanor, my boss. She’s looking for some additional part-time help. This store gets extremely busy these days, and I’m often here alone—I don’t know what experience you have, but when I started, I had none. It’s not the most lucrative gig, but I suspect it pays better than the street corner.” 

“Well, I suppose that would depend on which street corner and what you’re doing there, sunshine,” Dean replies easily, punctuating his abrupt return to being a flirty brat with a wink. If Castiel didn’t find him so fascinating, Dean’s mood swings would likely give him a headache. 

“No doubt,” Castiel agrees dryly. “It’s up to you, but—” He cuts himself off, hesitates, and then decides, _what the hell? Why not go for it?_ “I wouldn’t mind having you around.” 

Dean brightens immediately, something softening in his face that makes the attempted charm seem a lot more genuine. “Well, when the hottest dude south of Dorchester Street tells you to sit your ass down, you fuckin’ do it, I guess.” 

Just like that, Dean’s back behind the counter, unapologetically invading Castiel’s space. This time, Castiel only has himself to blame.

He can’t say that he regrets it.

Over the next few hours, in between gas sales and refilling the coffee pots and roller grill items, Castiel and Dean... _hang out,_ Castiel believes is the appropriate phrase. It’s been ages since he’s done something like that with anyone not Gabriel or Crowley or his theater friends (mostly _at_ the studio or theater, or a diner, if they’re truly desperate) and _rusty_ might be understating the matter.

He’s awkward, missing most of the pop culture references Dean makes, failing to laugh at the right moments or appropriately snark back when he should. He’s quick to busy himself with tasks around the store; straightening products, restocking, even counting the register—anything to keep his hands busy and his eyes from eating Dean alive. 

Even still, Castiel knows that his face flushes more than it should while they talk. Suspects that Dean must be seeing through his crumbling facade so very easily.

From his smirks and the teasing jabs that tend to follow, that definitely seems to be the case, although Dean doesn’t seem to mind in the least that Castiel is a socially anxious and inept mess. Dean fills would-be clumsy silences with anecdotes and jokes, stories about himself, his brother Sam, and genuinely interested questions about Castiel himself. Dean claps him on the shoulder when Castiel says something funny, he laughs heartily, and overall, he makes Castiel feel terribly, disgustingly warm inside just having him around.

When Elanor walks into the shop around ten-thirty, her blue and green-tipped brown hair more windblown than usual, Castiel already has Dean filling out an application. Just as he suspected, Elanor’s relieved to have the offer of help and barely glances at it. Especially from someone Castiel is willing to vouch for (and train). And if he skates over how well and how long of a time he’s known Dean, well—Castiel’s gone out on shakier limbs for far less deserving people. 

He suspects that Elanor wouldn’t mind, though, if she knew the truth. After all, she’s the one who gave _him_ a shot here when he was down on his luck, and she has nearly as strong a desire to collect and help the downtrodden as Castiel. No food goes to waste from this Gas-N-Sip; corporate policy against donating it or no, and the “Bathrooms are for Customers” signs are never, ever enforced. Elanor can always be found taking the items that haven’t sold off of the roller or out of the bakery cabinets to folks sleeping outside on the street, and Castiel’s personally seen her offering blankets that came from the back of her own car.

Her quiet compassion is a big part of why she and Castiel click so well, that’s for certain.

Dean winds up staying for the entire shift since Elanor’s willing to pay him to do so, more than happy to get his orientation underway. By the time he and Castiel turn over the store to the evening shift girl, Dean’s visibly dead on his feet. They walk home slowly, _leisurely,_ Castiel would call it, if he weren’t so concerned that Dean might actually fall asleep standing up.

Still, it’s nice. It’s enjoyable to have company. It’s also pleasant for that company to be so attractive, so friendly, so... _everything_ that both terrifies and intrigues Castiel so fiercely. 

“Gotta ask one thing,” Dean pipes up, bumping his elbow casually against Castiel’s as they travel. 

“Anything,” Castiel replies quickly, wincing at how desperate that sounds coming out of his mouth. He expects that Dean will want to know why he’s going out on such a limb for him, perhaps wondering what he might desire in return. Castiel wracks his brain for something that isn’t, _“You are not unpleasant to look at, and while I’m incredibly awkward and confused about what I want from you, I’m also very lonely.”_

“What was with all the rocks on the shelf behind the counter?”

 _That_ catches Castiel off-guard. “What?”

“At the Gas-N-Sip,” Dean explains. “Up above the register, where you keep the chewing tobacco. There were all these rocks—”

“Oh,” Castiel breathes, huffing a small laugh. “That’s—Elanor loves rocks,” he says simply.

Dean’s brow furrows. “Like—crystals? That new-agey, change-your-energy and mood type stuff?” Biting back a smirk, Castiel just raises an eyebrow and Dean flushes, ducking his head. He fidgets, adjusting the strap of his guitar case over his shoulder. “I dated a chick who was into that stuff once,” he mumbles. 

Letting him off the hook, Castiel moves along, first removing his hands from his pockets and holding them over his face to trap some air and warm his freezing nose. “Some of them,” he replies with a nod. “Most of them are just rocks.” He shrugs. “I’m certainly not in any position to call out someone’s nerd hobby.”

As their building comes into sight, Castiel ventures to broach the last subject, the one he’s hanging onto but been too chicken to bring up before this point. Today has been a day of firsts, some more surprising than others. This one _should_ be the easiest—it’s what he _does,_ after all. It’s _his_ nerd hobby, and Castiel has a nose for sniffing out untapped talent. The fact that Dean sets him so off-balance should be a non-starter, and yet, apparently Dean makes him dumb in general. 

“I know that you have much on your plate,” he begins, right as Dean yawns enthusiastically next to him. They reach their front steps, hesitating halfway up to the door. Not just Castiel but Dean too—as if, despite his exhaustion, he’s not in a rush to leave Castiel behind. “It’s just,” Castiel continues. “I’ve seen your talent. I’m actually—I’m a stage manager, I’m working with King’s Productions right now to put on a stage production of _RENT.”_

“Shit, I love _RENT,_ ” Dean replies immediately, and then caveats. He has to set his boombox down to rub his cold hands together vigorously before pointing an accusing finger in Castiel’s direction. “Don’t you dare tell Sammy I said that. I’ll never live it down. But, you know. Feels like we’re livin’ it some days.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Castiel agrees, instinctively glancing around at the gritty city buildings and the dying sunlight fading behind them, threatening to leave nothing but cold and dark behind. Par for the course these days. “Anyway, we’re still searching for a Roger, and I think—Dean, you should audition.” 

Dean gapes at him for a moment before bursting into laughter, quickly reigning it in with a snort when Castiel blinks back at him, stone-faced. “Oh God, you’re serious,” he says. “Cas—I ain’t got time—”

Castiel raises both hands quickly in surrender. “You don’t have to give me the spiel,” he replies. “Trust me when I say that I understand. However…” He chews his lip. “It’s not just some after school activity, you know. We’re...a family, or at least, productions tend to become one. People will want to help you, help take care of you. In the past we’ve done fundraisers, we’ve all chipped in to make things happen when one of us is down. Charlie, our lights girl, may have taken _RENT_ slightly too seriously—she rewired the Bank of America ATM outside Fenway, for emergencies only.”

“To provide an honorarium to anyone with the code?” Dean deadpans, not singing the line at all, his voice full of disbelief. “You’re shitting me.” 

“C-A-S-T-I-E-L,” Castiel tells him, unable to bite back his smile. “I was named after an Angel.”

“This is too much,” Dean says with a laugh, slapping his knee. 

“Promise you won’t abuse it.”

“Cas, I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m not this hard-up ‘cause I go about things the easy way,” Dean remarks, scratching his head. “Not really my style to take handouts, or to take things from others in general.” 

“Same,” Castiel agrees quietly. “I’ve never used the code.” 

“Hmm,” is all Dean says, but his eyes crinkle, and Castiel thinks he looks appreciative. 

“My point though,” Castiel persists. “Is that it’s not just a production, it’s a community. It seems as if—and please take this in the spirit that it’s intended—you and Sam could both use some support. Barring finding a rehab that will accept him and that you can afford, perhaps he could get involved as well. I’m very sure we could find something for Sam to do. Lights, sound, construction? Costumes?” 

“I don’t know about all that,” Dean hedges. He’s grinding the toe of his boot into the cement stair and looking for the first time today like he wants to escape. Castiel may be awkward, but he knows when to stop pushing, and so he backs off.

“Alright,” he relents. “Perhaps you can sleep on it. If you’re interested…” He pauses to fish around in his jacket pocket, pulling out one of Crowley’s business cards. “This is the address of King’s Productions Studios. Final auditions take place tomorrow around two.” Dean takes the offering and nods, smiling a little as he flicks the card against his finger. 

“Sure,” he says placatingly. “Maybe.” 

Castiel dips his head, moving to step away and inside the building, but at the last second he finds another burst of confidence and turns around. “This isn’t a pity offer,” he says firmly. “You’re an excellent performer, and we would be lucky to have you. Beyond that...Dean, you don’t have to do this—” Castiel gestures towards their building and hopefully to where Sam is holed up in their apartment, “—alone. Some things are more important, more valuable in the long run, than money.” He pauses and Dean remains silent, eyes downcast.

“You know, my roommate—he’s playing Mark—is a Type I Diabetic. He finds himself in a bind nearly every month affording both his bills and his medication. And yet, if you ask him, he’ll tell you that there’s nothing more important than being on the stage with his friends. Of course, Gabriel is an idiot, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.” Castiel shrugs and smiles as he steps backward into the lobby, already missing Dean’s handsome, kind face as the door closes behind him. “I hope that I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

***

The fifth time Castiel meets Dean, it’s when the green-eyed man runs full-speed into the studio that’s doubling as an audition space at the _very_ last minute. He’s _just_ in time to stop Castiel and Crowley from packing it in for the day, to Castiel’s enormous relief. Three more potential Rogers and not one with the stage presence or voice to carry the show have Castiel ready to pack it in for good, actually. Have him considering _praying_ for the first time in many years, of the mind that at the very least, it couldn’t hurt. 

Dean’s heavy footsteps slapping down the hall come like a benediction to Castiel, and he can’t help but grin when the man bursts into the studio. Dean is out of breath and bright red in the face from running, nose pink from the cold. He’s still gorgeous—perhaps even more so than when he’s holding it together—roughed up and edgy, just like Roger should be. Dean’s no idiot, he even has his guitar case slung around his back, _smart cookie._

Castiel wonders briefly whether this is Dean’s first rodeo in auditioning for something...newbies don’t tend to consider details like that.

Then Dean starts singing, and all coherent thought goes out of Castiel’s head completely. Dean belts, “What You Own,” at the top of his lungs and is the perfect mix of angst, charm, and rockstar voice—not to mention, good looks. One glance over at Crowley’s mesmerized face is all it takes for Castiel to rest smugly back in his seat, vindicated.

As it turns out, Crowley is into Dean in _every_ possible way, which has Castiel fighting off feelings he has no business entertaining. At the very least, anything beyond the production doesn’t seem to go both ways, and Castiel tells himself he isn’t relieved. 

Dean is offered the role on the spot, and just like that, he’s a fixture in Castiel’s life. Living in his building, working at his job, singing lead in his show. Maybe it’s for that reason that Castiel freaks out a little, and hits the brakes when Dean tries to get closer. On their way home after auditions, Dean tries once again to ask him out, and Castiel balks.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to, he _does._ It scares him a little how _very_ much he does. 

But Dean has gone from total stranger to being woven into the very fabric of his existence in mere days, and that’s a _lot_ for Castiel. It’s too much, too soon. 

Despite that, he can’t quite bring himself to slam the door shut completely. 

As they stroll the sidewalk past the already-busy bars, Dean looks over at him hopefully. His hands are shoved into his too-light-for-the-weather canvas jacket, almost as if he’s working to keep them to himself. “So, whaddaya say, Cas?”

Biting his lip, Castiel stops walking and turns toward Dean. He looks up at him thoughtfully as Dean smiles back, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Maybe,” Castiel says slowly, contemplatively tapping at his chin with one finger. “When the show is over.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Life Support, New Years' Eve, drunken first kisses, _feelings_ , they definitely aren't talking about it.


	3. Will I?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The pulse between them is electric—just the way it always is—and somehow, everything else fades into the background for Castiel. The cold wind blowing around his head and cutting like ice through his sweater, the freezing windowsill pressed against his stomach. Most importantly, all of the fears and anxieties that he’s been harboring, the things he’s been allowing to hold him back from letting Dean in._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay. I'm guessing I don't need to explain that I've been struggling since the finale, but I'm trying to get back on the horse, so to speak. This chapter was written awhile ago, so please don't fear it'll be subpar quality.
> 
> Blue is struggling too. There will be more art, she needs some grace and understanding on when she'll feel up to doing it. <3 Please send her love if you feel up to it, and know that we're sending love and support and hugs and all that to all of you.
> 
> On the bright side, Jem/@Jemariel is in this one. ;) Enjoy that.
> 
> Warnings: alcohol use (not abuse, just drinking), weed use (not treated as drug use), Sam's heroin addiction is addressed and there is a brief, non-graphic OD scene; he is fine and it leads to real recovery).

_“No other road, no other way._

_No day but today.”_

After "Life Support" closes on a semi-depressing note _,_ Castiel checks-in with Chuck and hands over cue-calling responsibilities for a few minutes. There’s nothing terribly complicated in this section that Chuck can’t coordinate on his own, their crew is on point tonight, and they’ve all practiced this particular handover in rehearsals more times than not. 

As important as cues are, Castiel has an unpredictable cast, all with huge personalities. That includes a diva in her own right playing Maureen. Meg is Cas’ friend, but nonetheless a liability prone to tantrums unless she gets a similar amount of attention and coddling as her character. Castiel’s learned that it’s much better for him to take a moment and step backstage to check-in on what’s going on, rather than discover that Meg is pouting and refusing to perform right as the opening chords of her big solo number hit. 

Sighing, Castiel turns away from the stage, hurrying down the side steps that lead to the hallway and the dressing rooms beyond. In the semi-darkness, lit mostly by the red “EXIT” sign above the door at the bottom of the stairs, he nearly trips over the small child sitting tucked against the wall halfway down.

“Jem,” Castiel scolds, catching himself on the railing and awkwardly managing to regain his footing—but just barely. “What have I told you about playing on the stairs like this? Especially when we’re live.” He folds his arms across his chest as the kid peers up at him guiltily.

“Sorry, Cas-tee-el,” Jem says, sounding his name out carefully, despite the fact that they’ve know each other since Jem was in diapers. Seven years old now, Jem is as much a fixture here as Cas is—both of Jem’s parents being regular ensemble members of Crowley’s productions. Most of the time, Castiel finds them sitting on a crate or in a dark corner with a flashlight, always writing in that journal. Or chewing on it, for some reason. 

He rolls his eyes. “I brought the beanbag that you like from my apartment over. It’s in the corner stage left, next to the tables we use for “La Vie Boheme.” 

Jem lights up, smiling with one front tooth missing as they scramble to go and check out their prize. “Oh, hey, Cas,” Jem stage-whispers, right as Castiel starts back down the stairs. “I brought those snacks over to the seats you saved, like you said.” 

“Thank you pumpkin,” Castiel replies, reaching up to pinch Jem’s cheek lightly. He’s in the habit of leaving tickets at will-call for the homeless population that tends to set-up in the alleyways of the theater district. It gets people out of the cold for a few hours and takes care of the potential complaints from assholes who don’t like to stroll past tent cities on their night out at the theater. The irony of elitist jerks like that coming to see _RENT_ is not lost on Castiel, but it’s also not a battle he can win. 

Hence, his setting of vulnerable folks up in the audience and sending Jem to deliver them food and drink. While the sustenance aspect might appear patronizing coming from him, no one’s pride is apt to be wounded by a toothless seven-year-old carrying a pink picnic basket. The whole thing is a tried and true solution that benefits everyone, and Castiel gets to feel like he’s _doing_ something to help. 

It’s what he promised himself he’d do, after leaving the Church and striking out on his own— _help._ While Castiel might have rejected organized religion wholesale, the core messages in the stories he was taught as a young child still resonate. Care for the poor, the sick, the vulnerable. Put others first. Religion may lean on hypocrisy and lack any intention of actually _doing_ those things that it preaches, but _Castiel_ does. 

If he can make a difference for just one person, then that’s what he wants to do.

Right now, though, he’s got other things on his mind. 

Hopping down the last two steps, Castiel opens the stage door and slips through, closing it carefully behind him. The hallway on the other side is a shock to the system: bright and busy, lit with overhead fluorescents that make him blink after being in the relative dark of the wings for so long. People rush to and fro, in and out of various rooms with costumes half-on and half-off. They pass with armloads of make-up and hair products in hand, some yelling frantically, some laughing. 

Backstage smells like sweat and musty fabric from costume pieces left in storage for too long, pancake foundation and hairspray. Not the most enticing mix, but the _energy_ here is electric. Excitement and pride, anticipation and anxiety, all swirled together. This is the _best_ part of putting on a show, as far as Castiel is concerned. The way it all comes together, the magic behind the moments _just before_ whatever is seen on stage.

Balthazar, still dressed in his character Angel’s fabulous Santa-drag for “Will I?”, winks at Castiel as he squeezes by and through the stage door. Victor, their “Tom Collins,” is right behind him, already hand-in-hand. The two of them certainly make a strange pair, but somehow, it works. 

Ultimately, everyone wants to do their best, but it doesn’t matter if someone misses a note or steps on a cue. It happens, the show goes on, and everyone else is ready and willing to have whoever’s back that goofed. No _one_ single person—not the director, not the leading man or lady—can carry a production completely on their own. Each puzzle piece is equally important, from the guy doing makeup to the stage manager, to each and every member of the chorus. 

Most of those bustling around ignore Castiel right now, not out of anything but understanding for what he’s in the middle of trying to pull off. At the end of the hallway, Castiel spots his target, brown curls bouncing over her shoulders as she practices her big choreographed dance. Next to her, Rowena mimics the steps, her lips moving in a silent count of the beats. Her own wild red hair is tied uncharacteristically back, presumably so that it doesn’t obscure her vision. 

“That’s better, dearie,” Rowena can be heard saying as Castiel approaches, laying a reassuring (and perfectly manicured) hand on Meg’s shoulder as she shrugs and shakes out her limbs. As Meg pulls an arm across her chest to stretch it, she catches Castiel’s gaze and he raises his eyebrows, holding his breath. She simply shoots him a flippant thumbs-up, though, and smirks. He breathes a sigh of relief; she’s ready to go.

Relieved, Castiel exhales. He happens to glance over his shoulder just in time to see Sam Winchester walking out of the entrance to the main ensemble dressing room directly across from the stage access. Unsurprisingly, he has the hand of Jess Moore, the show’s costumer, clutched tightly in his as they sneak quietly through the stage door. 

Not that they need to hide; Castiel knows exactly what Sam is up to, and he’s more than welcome to go where he pleases. Sam’s well-integrated into the crew at this point, though it wasn’t always so easy for him. Regardless, he’s in the wings right now for precisely the reason Castiel isn’t—show duties aside. “Will I?” hits a bit too close to home for Castiel, especially with _Dean_ on stage, singing his heart out about the fear of dying unloved and alone. For Sam, it’s the opposite—and it’s Sam’s life, his prerogative to feel however he does. Clearly, sad as the tone may be, that piece is a reminder of how far Sam has come, how lucky he is to still be here.

Castiel may not completely understand, but he remembers all too well. 

***

_New Year’s Eve_

_Almost One Year Ago_

Rehearsals have started, utilizing Crowley’s studios where his office is located downtown, since he’s yet to secure a theater space for their use. That’s not abnormal in the least, though it’s always worrying for a stage manager with a million things to do and nowhere to do them. Crowley may have connections, may have blackmail material on half of the city, in fact, but that doesn’t mean anyone _likes_ him. 

Castiel’s not unaware of this fact, _he’s_ not exactly Crowley’s biggest fan himself, but Crowley always seems to come through in the clutch with a deal.

That doesn’t mean they haven’t had a close call or two, though. Back in 2017, their ambitious production of _Phantom_ lost its venue only two weeks out from Opening Night. Thankfully, with a little help and a _lot_ of luck (and an extremely sketchy moving company that apparently owed Crowley a solid), they made it work with a community playhouse halfway to the Cape. Despite their ultimate success, that’s not an experience Castiel has any desire to repeat, ever.

With _RENT,_ should their venue be lost the same way, the production wouldn’t be able to recover. The sets alone will have to be built with the specific theater and stage they’re using in mind—a last minute change would be disastrous. A failure to secure a theater at all, or before Crowley’s budget for the show runs out? Obviously, much worse. 

Bottom line: they’ve never had to shelve a production because Crowley couldn’t secure one of his usual haunts to put it on in. However, he _does_ seem to be having a more difficult time this go-round, and that raises Castiel’s hackles. So does the amount of time Crowley’s been spending holed up in his office, yelling at people on the phone. 

If nothing else, usually by this point they’d at least have a building interior to reference for the set builders. And a couple of hours per week to block and get used to the space they’ll be performing in. No such luck for _RENT_.

Castiel’s still optimistic, though. Between Crowley’s slimy handshake deals and the desperation of the local colleges and universities for cash flow, someone is bound to cave...eventually. If not for the money, then for whatever dirt Crowley inevitably has on the University President or Dean or, hell, at least one of them has Roman Catholic affiliation—

Rolling his eyes at that semi-blasphemous ( _hey, old habits die hard)_ thought, Castiel sinks further into the giant beanbag chair masquerading as adult furniture in his living room. Or, more accurately, the shared common area to the right of Gabriel’s “bedroom”. 

It’s less than an hour before midnight on New Year’s Eve, and that means two days in a row free from Crowley’s snapping and bitching and impossible demands. Yesterday, Castiel spent several hours explaining why, no matter which theater they eventually book, Crowley can’t have thirty-second set changes that require a two-story _scaffolding_ to be moved _entirely_ offstage into the wings on _repeat_. 

Still, he’d take that headache any day over what came next. Walking out of Crowley’s office and straight into what appeared to be Dean and Pam holding a practice session for Roger and Mimi’s onstage kissing scenes. 

_No, not “appeared”,_ Castiel scolds himself now. That’s exactly what it was, no matter how jealous watching Dean cup Pamela’s cheek and kiss her softly made him. It’s not as if Dean is in any way to blame for doing exactly what’s being asked of both him and his character, or that Dean owes _Castiel_ anything at all. 

In fact, Castiel’s gone out of his way to ensure that Dean thinks he wants the exact opposite, hasn’t he? 

He’s spurned Dean’s advances, turning him down left and right. He has absolutely _no_ business even _feeling_ jealous, never mind acting on it. 

Scowling, Castiel snags the bottle of cheap vodka off of the floor next to him and takes a long swig. He’s nearly halfway through the fifth at this point and has no intention of stopping before next year rolls around. Across the room from him, an elderly TV with a grainy picture sits on top of an end table that Gabriel found on the street several years ago. The cable’s pirated, split from the ladies down the hall, which may or may not be a driving force in Castiel’s desire to feed them on a regular basis. 

They wouldn’t have that, either, except Gabriel dated a Verizon tech for like ten minutes once. Brought him home and traded God knows what (Castiel knows, he sleeps one thin wall over) in exchange for the guy doing his thing with the wires that criss-cross the outside of their building. 

“Why so glum, Hot Stuff?” 

Castiel casts a half-glazed glance over at where Gabriel is drunkenly splayed out on their futon. His short, goofy roommate’s leg is almost fully on the floor while his head is resting in his on-again, off-again (no idea what they are right now) girlfriend Kali’s lap. Grunting, Castiel just swigs from the bottle again and shrugs gloomily. 

On the TV screen, throngs of (fuzzy) happy people in parkas, feather boas, and a wide arrangement of other festive accessories laugh and cheer from behind the barriers lining Times Square. Castiel scowls at them. Who would even want to stand out in the freezing cold for _twelve hours_ , waiting impatiently for a ten second event that does nothing but signify the arbitrary change of label for a particular time period? 

The only thing _worse_ than the hysteria over this particular midnight (over the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four each year) is the accompanying romantic pressure that tags along with it. After they left King’s Studios earlier, Dean had tried to flirt—of course, that’s what Dean does—but with the memory of seeing Dean and Pamela _rehearsing (just rehearsing,_ Castiel reminds himself, not bitterly at all), Castiel couldn’t bring himself to even accept an invitation to “hang out.” 

Which is why he’s currently being sucked down into the depths of a beanbag chair while concurrently drinking his way through an entire liquor store’s worth of alcohol. Well, the lower shelves, anyway. 

Gabriel sighs loudly before attempting to shove himself off of the futon, a move that ends with him nearly faceplanting onto their concrete floors. “Cold,” he complains, brushing off his hands as he struggles to his feet. Rolling her eyes, Kali follows close behind, and while Castiel happens to know she’s put away twice the alcohol Gabriel has, she’s also twice as steady as she grabs him under the arm to help him up.

“Thanks, sugar lips,” Gabriel flirts, tossing her a wink. 

“I will pull your balls out through your throat if you ever call me that again,” Kali replies mildly. 

“Noted.” Gabriel turns and wiggles his eyebrows at Castiel. “We’re going to head out.”

“It’s not even midnight,” Castiel complains, waving his bottle around. “You’ve got, like—” He checks his watch. “Three and half minutes. You won’t get any further than the elevator.”

“Oh, shit, we better hurry,” Gabriel replies, grabbing his and Kali’s coats from where they’re slung over the back of the futon and, half-stumbling, yanks her towards the door. 

“You’re going to fornicate in the elevator, aren’t you?”

“Happy New Year, Cas!” 

The door slams and Castiel eyes the liquid sloshing at the bottom of the bottle in his hand suspiciously. If he chugs it all in one go, maybe he can be unconscious before Gabriel comes back. That would be pleasant. 

The energy on his TV screen ramps up as Castiel’s mood spirals even further down. Just before the countdown starts, Castiel fishes around on the floor next to him and grabs the remote, stabbing blearily at the buttons until one of them switches the set off. He flops back onto the beanbag, staring at the ceiling and feeling bad for himself, until—

There’s a noise, a sound from outside the giant, heat-leeching glass windows, something like... _singing?_

_“What’s the time? Well, it’s gotta be close to midnight. My body’s talking to me, it says, time for danger.”_

Curious, Castiel wrestles his way out of the clutches of the stupid quicksand-masquerading-as-chair to sit up. In his defense, the crappy thing was cheaper than a couch, and guests always seem to like it. He can’t see shit from down here on the floor, though, so even with his swirling head and half-numb feet, Castiel stands. Once vertical, he wobbles a little and his eyes go crossed for a second, but he stays upright. 

Making his way over to the closest window, the singing only gets louder. As Castiel lifts the sash, a familiar head of hair appears at the top of the stairs leading up from the fire escape landing below. 

_“It says, I wanna commit a crime! Wanna be the cause of a fight. I wanna put on a tight shirt, and flirt—with a stranger.”_

Even drunk as he is—or possibly because of it—Castiel finds himself laughing as Dean slinks his way up the steps just like Mimi does in _RENT._ He’s underdressed for the weather outside, so Castiel suspects he must have slipped out of his own window only minutes before launching into his little performance. Clad only in jeans and a t-shirt covered by a red and black flannel rolled up to his elbows, Dean’s usually-gelled hair is mussed, like maybe he just woke up from a nap.

His eyes are bright, cheeks and nose turning red from the cold, breath puffing clouds into the air with every pitch-perfect note. Those pretty lips of Dean’s look like they’re caressing his words as they float out, and _whoa,_ Castiel has had _way_ too much to drink. 

That aside, Dean and his serenade do come off as awfully inviting. 

_Adorable,_ Castiel’s brain supplies. _Kissable, even._ That thought makes him start a little, unexpected as it is, but the gentle wave of intoxication washes his discomfort away before he can get worked up about it. 

Like the mess he is, Castiel drapes himself halfway out of the window, clinging to the crumbling bricks at the edge. He knows he’s grinning like an idiot as Dean turns the heat up a notch, but he can’t help it. The charm and humor Dean oozes as he uses the railing like his own personal stripper pole turn him magnetic, and Cas is a moth to the flame. Slinging a leg over the rail and holding on as he leans back, Dean works his body flawlessly, all the while belting the remainder of “Out Tonight” at the top of his lungs. 

Castiel barely feels the cold as Dean slinks closer, crawling like a cat across the small iron balcony. His heart pounds in his chest but he doesn’t bail, doesn’t shove Dean away playfully or tell him to fuck off. 

“Just take me... _ooouuut_ tonight,” Dean sings, finishing the song nearly nose-to-nose with Castiel, his breath hot where the skin on Cas’ face is cold. “Please,” Dean murmurs quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching as he leans in, lips parting. 

The pulse between them is electric—just the way it always is—and somehow, everything else fades into the background for Castiel. The cold wind blowing around his head and cutting like ice through his sweater, the freezing windowsill pressed against his stomach. Most importantly, all of the fears and anxieties that he’s been harboring, the things he’s been allowing to hold him back from letting Dean in. 

Like magic, as one year ends and the next rolls in over the blink of an eye, it all disappears.

And they touch.

Dean’s lips are cool but soft when they capture his, and Castiel barely needs the gentle flick of Dean’s tongue along the seam of his mouth to taste the whiskey on his breath. Some part of him is embarrassed—comparatively, he probably tastes like an entire bar—but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite; Dean’s fingers thread with enthusiasm into Castiel’s hair, dancing down the shell of his ear to cup the side of his head. 

His kiss isn’t anything like Castiel expected—it’s careful, affectionate, playful. Dean kisses like he’s trying to earn a second chance to do it again, and if that’s the case, it’s working. At least, mostly-intoxicated Castiel is impressed. Enough to grab Dean by the sides of his face and mouth at him like a teenage boy being given his first opportunity. 

In some ways, that’s all-too true, but for once, Castiel’s not interested in focusing on his issues right now. 

Hands finding Dean’s collar, Castiel tugs at him to move inside, and Dean groans happily into his mouth, apparently thrilled at the offer. 

“Fuck yes, Cas,” he murmurs against Castiel’s lips, and Castiel can only smile.

“I’m not entirely sober,” Castiel admits, speaking around Dean’s tongue. That makes Dean pull back and laugh, eyes glassier up close, the world so much colder without him pressed against Castiel’s chest. 

“Wouldn’t be up here if I was,” Dean replies, biting his bottom lip shyly and looking down. “Not sure if my ego could take one more rejection.” 

That confession makes Castiel blink, makes him stop and hesitate, with a soft hand on Dean’s sternum. “Dean, I—” he starts, wanting more than anything to ensure that Dean knows that Castiel never meant to hurt him. His issues are his _own,_ never once did Castiel consider that Dean might take his reluctance so personally. Handsome and gorgeous and _kind and talented_ as Dean is, why would he care about _Castiel’s_ apparent disinterest?

Unfortunately, the booze clouding his brain makes him slow to respond, to force his words out in any kind of coherent order. In that time, Castiel’s brief window of opportunity closes.

 _“Dean!”_ Gabriel’s voice filters up from below, coming between them as hard and unyielding as the iron staircase itself. “ _Cassie!_ Anyone, help! Can you hear me?” 

Just like that, Dean’s sweet warmth that had _just_ returned to Castiel’s side is gone, and he’s left flailing, half-falling over the windowsill with no willing body there to keep him upright. 

“Gabe?” Dean calls back, moving quickly to the edge of the fire escape and leaning far, far over the railing. “Oh shit—fuck,” he swears, disappearing down the steps in a flash of red flannel before Castiel can even swing a leg out after him.

“It’s Sam,” Gabriel continues, sounding distraught. “I can’t—I’m gonna call 911.” 

Whether Dean isn’t as drunk as him or is just better at hiding it is anyone’s guess. Either way, by the time Castiel is peering over the railing, his friend is already dropping to the ground next to Sam’s collapsed form. The floppy hair Dean always complains about wanting to trim is splayed wildly against the cement, blowing gently in the cold breeze, while Sam himself is lying perfectly still.

The urgency and gravity of the scene below contrasted by the loud cheering, the music and partying that leaks out from windows and doors all up and down the street, is stark. That—and the illegal fireworks shooting into the sky all around them—contribute to a feeling of unreality for an already off-kilter Castiel. 

He makes his way carefully down the fire escape—albeit much less adeptly than Dean—one step at a time, socked feet slipping on the rungs. The icy railing hurts Castiel’s palms and the windchill in the twenties makes him shiver, even with all the alcohol he has on board. 

Still, somehow, by the time he’s hanging from the lowest ladder and dropping to the cement sidewalk below, Castiel’s buzz is fading, and he’s more alert than he’s been all night. Perhaps that has something to do with seeing the unforgiving truth of what addiction does splayed out in front of him. Perhaps it’s worsened by watching _Gabriel,_ his own brother, desperately giving the breath of life while Dean pleads for his efforts to work.

The paramedics show up, taking over in a blur of lights and the screech of tires and sirens. Something gets squirted into Sam’s nose, something else gets pushed through his veins. Right there on the sidewalk, Sam goes abruptly from blue and silent—his chest unmoving save for the air that’s being forced into it—to gasping and vomiting, while alternately trying to punch whoever’s in his immediate vicinity. 

It’s startling, and makes Castiel take one giant step back, but this apparently isn’t Dean’s first rodeo. He jumps into action, clearly thrilled to finally be of use, holding Sam from behind until he calms down. 

As Sam’s breathing evens out and he shifts from panicked anger to sobbing, Dean looks up and makes eye contact with Castiel. Reaching into his pocket, he tosses him a set of keys. “Grab my wallet, boots?” he asks, nodding towards their building. “Right by the door.” 

Glancing down, Castiel realizes that Dean is shoeless, just like him. In other circumstances, that fact might have had Castiel dwelling on what Dean expected (or was hoping) to happen when he came upstairs. He certainly wasn’t actually intending to go _out_ if he wasn’t wearing shoes. 

Now, though, he just nods and sprints inside, taking the stairs two at a time. Unlocking Dean’s door, he finds the described items plus Dean’s usual canvas coat hanging just inside. At quick glance (he can’t resist), the space appears virtually identical to his own, just more sparse. No comfy beanbag chair here, and the TV looks like something Castiel’s parents had in their living room circa 1998. 

Closing the door and locking it again, Castiel hesitates. Only for a moment, and then he’s bolting up the steps to grab his own essentials from his apartment. Coat, shoes, wallet, and keys in hand, he slides down each bannister to make it quicker, flinging himself around the landings and then out the lobby doors. He’s just in time to see the second paramedic jumping out of the back of the bus, slamming it shut. 

Gabriel is standing off to the side, smoking a joint and looking frazzled, but Castiel is on a mission.

“Can I ride with you?” he asks the medic. The guy hesitates, glancing towards the box he just came out of rather doubtfully.

“We usually only allow one, but your brother’s doing most of the grunt work keeping him calm—yeah, I guess you can take the free seat in the front.” 

Muttering his thanks (and ignoring being miscategorized as _brother_ since it serves his purpose), Castiel rounds the ambulance and hops inside. He notes the window between the cab’s two bucket seats and the way it allows for those up front to peek into the patient compartment. In the back, Sam is wailing and throwing up into a blue plastic bag that Dean is trying very hard to keep near his mouth while the exasperated medic fails at taking a blood pressure.

The ride to the hospital is short, but Sam has calmed substantially by the time the ambulance is backing up to the emergency room doors. By the time the medics are pulling the stretcher out, he’s downright subdued, averting his eyes from everyone and worrying the thin sheet that’s covering him between his fingers. 

They wheel him inside, leaving Dean behind, his green eyes looking sad and exhausted as he climbs down onto the bumper before jumping to the ground. Without comment, Castiel hands over his wallet and keys and then his boots, which Dean accepts with tacit appreciation.

“You didn’t have to come,” he grumbles as he tugs the shoes on, not bothering to even do a cursory lace-up before stalking towards the ER’s ambulance entrance. 

“I wanted to,” Castiel insists, tagging behind and offering up Dean’s coat as they round the corner through the automatic doors. 

Dean just shakes his head. “It’s family stuff, Cas. You shouldn’t have to see this.” 

The dismissal stings, but before they can reach the exam room that Sam’s stretcher is now parked in front of, Castiel stops Dean with a hand on his bicep. Almost reluctantly, Dean turns to face him. “You can’t help, Cas,” he says dejectedly. “Appreciate the...support, whatever, but I’ve been through this drill more than once.” 

“Yes,” Castiel tells him firmly, holding eye contact even when Dean’s cheeks flush. “And I’m not saying that a new approach will be sure to make a difference. However, it can’t hurt. I told you once, Dean. You don’t have to do this alone. If Sam _wants_ to stop and if you’re amenable...I may have some ideas. You only need to be willing to accept help, to let people who could care very much about you both _in_.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Dean doesn’t have to say the words for Castiel to know that he’s skeptical beyond belief. Understandably so, considering what Sam has been through up to this point and how little help they’ve likely received from any outside sources. If Castiel’s suspicions are correct, both he and Dean have resigned themselves to this being “the way it is.” Sam alternates between detoxing and relapsing in perpetuity until one of those things kills him, while Dean grinds and fights and sacrifices in any way that he can, just to try and stop the inevitable. 

Once again, Castiel knows this story well, he’s just never been so up close and personal with it. 

After a long moment of scrutinizing silence where Castiel is sure he’s going to be told to get lost, Dean lets out an exhausted sigh, running a hand through his hair. His shoulders slump as his arms hit his sides with a slap. 

“Sure,” he finally says. “We’ll try it your way. What have we got to lose?” 

***

Unlike the movies or certain Broadway shows, kicking a heroin habit isn’t as simple as falling in love and finding some better ways to pass the time. Although, those things certainly help. Lucky for Sam and Dean, cliched montages-come-to-life aren’t all Castiel has at his disposal. He’s also holding an arsenal of friends-turned-family that each come from different backgrounds and life experiences who are more than willing to lend a helping hand. 

Pam, in this case, is the key player. In her everyday (non-theater) life, she’s an agency nurse, a by-the-gig position that allows her extreme flexibility and control of her schedule to bend around the singing and acting jobs she prefers. “Doesn’t pay the rent, sugar,” she’s fond of saying when her starving-artist peers ask her why she bothers. “ _RENT_ is only sexy when it ends with a curtain call. Me? I like satin sheets, sushi, and air conditioning.”

It’s thanks to Pam’s expensive tastes and her current temporary contract as an intake RN at the city’s methadone clinic downtown that things get better for Sam as quickly as they do. The clinic is no upscale rehab, not even close to the integrated therapy Sam deserves, but it’s far better than the cold turkey, detox-in-a-bathtub situation he and Dean had going. Apparently, they’d even resorted to handcuffing him to the sink at one point.

At any rate, within days after being discharged from the hospital post-overdose, Sam’s in line at the clinic, receiving his first dose of methadone. Because of Pam, the hundred-person waiting list isn’t a barrier he has to jump, and Sam manages to stay sober for two full weeks—the longest he has in years, according to Dean. 

After two weeks, though, old habits start creeping in. Sam’s “friends” show up at the Winchesters’ apartment, goading and tempting him. One of them, some jerk named Brady whose company Sam’s never been entirely able to shake, isn’t keen on letting Sam break free so easily. He goes so far as to try and spike Sam’s drink with crushed up painkillers while they’re out to what was _supposed_ to be a supportive dinner. 

Sam spends the next day handcuffed to the sink again, and only doesn’t end up disqualified from receiving his methadone that week because Pam covers for him. “Just this once, sugar,” she tells him sternly, while Sam hangs his head, but Cas is pretty sure it’s all a tough-love front. Pam knows what life is like on the failure side of recovery, sees people at the absolute bottom of the barrel every single day. If Dean’s the good cop, Pam’s happy to be the bad one, if that’s what Sam needs. 

Thing is, Castiel begins to realize that Sam needs more than this. Methadone is great for the cravings, but Sam needs to overhaul his entire life. New friends, new hobbies, new routines. All of it _has_ to be upended for Sam to not just survive, but thrive. After the bullshit with Brady, Cas thinks Dean is starting to understand that, too.

Tonight, the two of them are sitting outside on Castiel’s balcony, despite the cold. They’re sharing a bowl after an especially long evening rehearsal that was pushed back so that Dean could accompany Sam to the clinic for his treatment. 

“The dude pretended to be his _friend,_ ” Dean says in disgust, the smoke curling out from between his lips and mingling with the frost of his breath in the icy air. They’re sitting on cheap, folding lawn chairs today, courtesy of Gabriel (Castiel didn’t ask—half of what they own are items Gabriel simply showed up with one day). 

Castiel accepts the bowl when Dean passes it, settling back into the plastic-y woven seat as he flicks the lighter and takes a hit. The chair creaks under his weight and Castiel wonders if it’s cold enough for the material to simply freeze and snap. He’s smoked enough that the idea of falling through the seat is equal parts hilarious and terrible, only because then he’d have to stand back up, which sounds exhausting. 

He laughs, and Dean looks at him like he’s nuts.

“I don’t think it’s productive to analyze an unrepentant addict’s motivations for anything,” Castiel muses mildly, momentarily considering the irony of this discussion and what they are currently doing. He quickly dismisses the hypocrisy, though—pot is not the same. In fact, smoking has been significantly helpful in keeping Sam heroin-free when his urges are particularly bad. “However, I do think it’s safe to say that Sam could use some new friends.” 

“Yeah,” Dean snorts. “I’ll just head on down to the Friend Store in Faneuil Hall and pick one up.” A chuckle escapes Castiel’s mouth, and even Dean’s lips twitch this time. “Shut up,” he says. “This is serious.” That just makes Castiel laugh some more, until Dean shoves him. The rickety chair tips easily with the force, sending Castiel rocketing sideways onto the ground.

He yelps and flails as he goes, managing to grab onto Dean’s pushing arm and drag the man down alongside him. Unfortunately for Dean, his own chair collapses just as easily, sending them both sprawling on the cold iron grating in a mess of limbs and plastic and metal. 

There’s a sharp edge of an arm digging into Castiel’s flank, worse so for Dean’s weight pressing down on top of him, but Castiel can’t stop laughing. Rolling onto his back, Dean finally relents and joins in, and they laugh until they’re both breathless and in pain from oxygen-starved lungs and sore rib muscles. 

The stars are actually somewhat visible tonight, an unusual sight with all of the ambient light pollution the city has to offer. Both of them stare up at the sky as their breathing slows back to normal, bodies so close that a charged tension inevitably develops between them. It’s been over a month and they haven’t talked about that kiss on New Year’s Eve. Not once—but between Sam and the show, they’ve rarely been alone, either. 

Well, except for at the Gas-N-Sip, where Castiel spends the majority of his on-the-clock time watching Dean with barely concealed heart-eyes as he belts out his solo numbers and mops the floor at the same time. Bringing relationship issues into work though—not exactly professional, and Castiel couldn’t do that to Elanor. If that’s become a convenient excuse to avoid addressing the subject at all, so be it.

Castiel’s fingers brush the back of Dean’s hand, and his whole arm tingles when skin touches skin. He can _feel_ when Dean’s head turns towards him, eyes boring into the side of his face. Heart pounding, Castiel tips his own head to meet Dean’s gaze.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, after a moment, watching the way Dean’s green eyes dip to his mouth, bottom lip pulling between his teeth. Dean takes a deep breath, and for a moment, Castiel is sure that he’s about to be kissed. All he can do is try not to showcase his blatant disappointment when that doesn’t happen, but Dean’s clearly preoccupied, lost in thought.

“Alright,” he says, and _yeah, deja vu._ Dean sighs and turns his face back up towards the sky. “We’ll try it your way. Again. So far, so good, I guess.” 

Sam starts coming along with Dean to rehearsals after that. At first, he seems awkward about being there, likely wondering if the cast and crew are judging him, or if they even want him there at all. He slumps in the seats at the back of the theater Crowley’s ( _finally)_ secured for them to use, or in the hallway if it’s a studio day. He doesn’t interact much and he’s out the door before Dean can so much as finish putting his jacket on and saying his goodbyes. 

But then, maybe two weeks into the new routine—just as Castiel is beginning to have his doubts about his own idea—something changes. Castiel happens to be meeting with the set designer regarding one of their biggest moving pieces (so his attention is pretty securely engaged) but the event still catches his eye. 

Jessica Moore, a fashion design student who’s also a fresh face at King’s Productions this year, sits down next to Sam Winchester’s pouting, sour face. And she makes him laugh. Jess is head of costume design (and also the entire costume design team, but that’s neither here nor there except that the Stage Manager side of Castiel desperately hopes Sam will want to help her out. She’s been driving him absolutely nuts asking for an assistant that’s not in his budget). 

Not much more happens that first day, except that when rehearsal is called for the night, Sam doesn’t bolt for the door. _Jess_ is the one who leaves first, and Castiel takes notice of how he watches her go, eyes wide and genuinely interested in something for the first time since Castiel met him. Excited, Cas finds Dean in the wings, carefully tugging him to the edge of the velvet curtains so that they can peer around like Lindsay Lohan times two in _the Parent Trap._

“Holy shit,” Dean whispers, even though there’s no possible way Sam could hear him all the way at the back of the house. He clutches at Castiel’s shirt and practically jumps up and down. “Holy shit!” 

Unable to bite back his grin, Castiel can’t stop looking at Dean’s face while he stares at his brother. He’s so clearly full of hope, something that’s rare to see on Dean lately. It looks good on him.

“Cas, you smart son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, wiping his hand over his mouth before slinging an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling him in tight. “Fuck,” he says in relief. “Thank fuck.”

It’s definitely good news, but it’s also _more_ pressure pushing down on Castiel after that, because the last thing he wants is for Dean to have the rug pulled out from under him yet again. Addiction is unpredictable and scary, and just because Sam is doing well _this_ minute, doesn’t mean he always will be.

Fortunately, things continue to get better, and Castiel feels safer and safer about breathing a (tempered) sigh of relief. When it comes to rehearsals, Sam doesn’t stick so closely to Dean’s side as time goes on. He starts coming in _early,_ in fact, showing up to help Castiel set up and leaving long after rehearsal has ended. Castiel’s not delusional; he’s clearly doing it to impress Jess, but he’s also actually _helping_ in the process, so what does Castiel care? 

In between rehearsal setup and breakdown, Sam hangs out backstage in the costume room. The times Castiel has walked through or sought Jess out for something, he’s even _working._ Chatting and laughing with Jess, ordering pizza and smoking on the rooftop on occasion, but definitely _working._ Needle and thread, sewing costume pieces and sorting through all kinds of accessories, _working._

If Dean gets more and more shocked each passing day, Castiel feels as if he has the right to be a _tiny_ bit smug. 

The day that Sam and Jess first leave together is a turning point. Sam makes it clear to Dean that they’re taking things slow, that Jess is accompanying him to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting at the church down the street, and Dean tells Sam he’s proud of him. After they’re gone, Dean grabs Castiel and kisses him hard, touch-starved and fierce in the shadows of the hallway that leads backstage.

Castiel doesn’t resist. On the contrary, he kisses Dean back like he's been dying to do so.

Dean’s mouth tastes vaguely of lemon and honey from the tea he drinks after rehearsals to soothe his throat. His lips are soft and the kiss itself is perhaps even better than the one they shared on New Year’s Eve. It leaves them both breathless as they exchange air in the aftermath, Castiel’s hand on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s lingering gently on his face. 

But they don’t talk about it. Scared of his own feelings and unable to entirely reconcile what he _wants_ and what he thinks he deserves, Castiel bolts. That night is the first time he’s walked home from a rehearsal that included Dean without him by his side since practices began, and Castiel dislikes it very much.

Along the way, he chastises himself for being so difficult. He vows that _when_ they finish this show, he _will_ give Dean a chance. That he’ll explain everything, make Dean understand why he’s so conflicted. That is, if he hasn’t chased Dean away completely in the mean time.

 _I will,_ Castiel promises himself, soles of his shoes slapping loudly against the sidewalk and missing the pair that usually walks beside them. _I’ll get there,_ he thinks.

And life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: The heat gets turned up, Cas takes his shirt off (and there's a surprise underneath), an unexpected change of plans.


	4. I Should Tell You (I'm Disaster)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ah,” Castiel replies, biting back a smile. “The compass is for moral and ethical direction. Hard-won.”_   
>  _“And the words?”_   
>  _“Those are Beyoncé lyrics.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for half-naked, tattooed Cas, wouldn't want anyone to have a heart attack over that visual

“La Vie Boheme” is arguably the biggest ensemble piece in the entire show, dramatic finale included. There are so many moving parts—from stacked cues to shifting set pieces, complicated lighting changes, and just _so_ many people Castiel needs to watch out for. From a cast and audience perspective, the number is fun and exciting. For him, it’s an anxiety-inducing mess. 

Thanks to that, Castiel’s usually far too preoccupied, busy working and kicking chorus members’ asses out of the wings and onto the stage to get sucked into the actual performance. Today, however, everything is moving extremely smoothly—more so than dress rehearsal, even. It’s much easier for Castiel to zone out and forget that the success of this entire production is riding on his shoulders, and he finds himself just _watching_ the scene unfold for the first time. 

His eyes follow Dean, of course—they always do.

Face glistening with sweat under the bright stage lights, Dean sings his heart out, as does everyone else. The audience sits enraptured, and Castiel can understand why. From atop one of the tables, Gabriel leads the ensemble and bridges each verse together—no one misses a single note or beat. Castiel’s gaze is caught on the way Pam and Dean grind together at Gabriel’s side, Dean’s hand on her cheek as they smile at each other, looking for all the world like two kids who are madly in love. 

It doesn’t bother Castiel, not anymore, not after everything they _all_ have been through together. His jealousy and insecurity were silly—laughable in retrospect, even. The truth is, Castiel could have had Dean to himself at any time. He understands that now, if slightly late to the game. 

They’ve come a long way.

_“Viva La Vie Boheme!”_

In front of him, everyone strikes a sharp pose, fists in the air as the last chord of music plays. Pyrotechnics organized by shadowed, scrambling crew shoot up from behind the ensemble, prompting a ripple of appreciation from the crowd. The sparks fizzle out right as Castiel calls the corresponding cue and the stage falls completely dark.

“Curtains,” Castiel murmurs into his headset. He reaches to untie and pull the ropes that will drag the heavy drapes closed from his side as Chuck handles stage left. As soon as the cast is obscured, the lights come up for intermission both on the stage and in the house. Once they can see, the cast floods off of the set towards the dressing rooms, anxious to get prepped for the second act. 

Dean’s breathing hard when he reaches Castiel’s side. He’s grinning widely, cheeks flushed with that adrenaline high they’re all experiencing. Even Castiel isn’t immune. No matter how many productions he’s managed, Opening Night always holds a certain amount of magic, of nostalgia for Castiel. Perhaps that’s why he lets Dean step so easily into his space, touching his waist as if that’s something they already _do_ all the damn time.

Castiel’s heart speeds up in chest; he’s done denying how badly he wants that to be the case. He wants to be easy with Dean, free with his affections and open with his feelings. He thinks about their earlier conversation on the roof, and owns that resolve to be the person he promised to be. The responding smile on his own face from Dean’s proximity is probably a pretty dead giveaway, too. And if not, the traitorous hand that finds its way to the side of Dean’s sweaty neck might be. 

“Gross,” Castiel remarks, letting his finger run along the underside of Dean’s jaw, which Dean unabashedly leans into.

Shrugging, Dean beams down at him. “Enjoying the show?” he asks huskily.

“Go drink some tea,” Castiel chastises, even as he nods. “Rest that voice, you have two more performances this weekend.” 

“I sound like you,” Dean remarks, tone dropping even lower as he ignores the advice, which Castiel can’t exactly complain about. Dean does sound _incredibly_ sexy. For a moment, Castiel thinks Dean is going to kiss him right there, but then he just licks his lips, winks, squeezes Castiel’s hip, and takes off for the backstage hallway. 

It takes nearly thirty seconds of starry-eyed gawking after him before Castiel realizes that they’re several critical minutes into intermission already. That would be fine, except that he needs _every_ single one of those precious seconds to complete the set changes that are necessary to move into the second act.

“Fuck,” Castiel swears under his breath, and then into his headset. “Chuck?” 

“Already on it, boss,” Chuck replies, as Castiel peeks his head out from the wings to see him and some of the stagehands pulling the scaffolding down from the fly tower in preparation for the cast to scale. The two-story structure that serves as balcony, fire escape, and the exterior of Roger and Mark’s apartment (among other things) is an absolute monster—Crowley will be damn lucky if they’re able to dismantle it enough to store the various pieces for use in the future.

Castiel knows firsthand how much that thing cost, and that’s not even taking into account how it had to be made _twice_. Thanks exclusively to Crowley losing them their initial performance space less than a month before their original Opening Night. Castiel snorts a little under his breath as he drags a ladder out into the middle of the stage in order to check that questionably-performing can light. 

Sure, they can laugh about it _now,_ but back then...Crowley almost cost them everything.

*** 

_June, Six Months Ago_

If Castiel has to listen to Dean and Gabriel rehearse “What You Own” _one_ more damn time, he’s going to puncture his own eardrums and end his misery. Yes, it’s wonderful how committed the two of them still are, even with the show’s uncertain future teetering more and more precariously on the edge of the proverbial cliff. On the other hand, it’s _so fucking hot_ in their third-floor loft, and Castiel can’t even bury his head underneath a pillow without feeling like he’s on the verge of suffocating. 

Sighing, he sits up on the beanbag chair just long enough to tug his sticky shirt away from his skin. Why he bothers, no clue—it returns to clinging wetly as soon as he relaxes back.

From across the room, Castiel can hear Dean’s breath hitch as he launches into the song’s bridge. It’s a familiar sound, one that signals he’s becoming tired and his throat must be sore. _Good,_ Castiel thinks. Hopefully they’ll soon call it quits. 

_“What was it about that night? Connection, in an isolating age.”_

Growling a little under his breath, Castiel wipes the sweat from his brow before fishing his phone out of his pocket and scrolling his notifications. Nothing from Crowley, but approximately a hundred panicked messages from their set builder asking what the hell he’s supposed to do now. Castiel doesn’t answer the man—he feels bad about it, but there’s nothing he can say. However unfair and unfortunate, there simply _is_ no answer to give at the moment.

Whatever squabble Crowley’s gotten into with the management of the theater they’ve been practicing in has likely cost them their space. During rehearsal two weeks prior, their marking run-through of “Seasons of Love” was interrupted by angry screaming filtering in from the direction of the lobby. Although understandably distracted, the cast had bravely attempted to muddle through the rest of the piece. That is, until Crowley stumbled through the double doors at the back of the house, holding a thoroughly bloodied handkerchief to his nose and scowling.

“Clear out,” was all he said before storming back out. Confused, there wasn’t much else for Castiel to do but call it for the day, sending the cast home while leaving their sets and props behind, as usual. He expected that whatever had gone down would blow over, that Crowley would work his usual handshake-deal-making-magic and they’d be back at work within days.

That didn’t happen.

What _did_ happen was that all of those things left behind had to be emergently rescued from where they were left for Tuesday’s trash by the theater’s vindictive owner. Castiel, Dean, Gabriel, and Sam arrived at the dumpsters by the exterior stage doors just in time to stop the garbage truck from swallowing every last prop and costume whole. That was a sight—the four of them carting armfuls of all sorts of crap through the theater district, looking (Castiel imagines) like a bunch of unemployed imaginary friends, recently laid off and forced to clear out their whimsically-equipped desks.

Those rescued boxes are now sitting in an overflowing studio back at King’s. Everything is, save for the half-constructed scaffolding that’s eventually supposed to be a scalable fire escape. _That_ is at the builder’s warehouse (not yet paid for in full), and said builder is none too happy about it, hence the texts. 

Bottom line: it seems unlikely at this point that they’ll be getting their theater back. As such, the entire show remains on hold while Crowley works to rectify the minor situation of _not having anywhere to perform_. 

Other venues exist, but unfortunately, this far into a production, changing performance locations just isn’t as simple as that. Between all the location-specific work they’ve done thus far, the last-minute notice, and all the money they _don’t_ have to throw away, prospects are bleak. Therefore, Castiel’s not taking Crowley’s instructions to “stand by and don’t worry too much, darling,” very seriously. As far as he’s concerned, _RENT_ is as good as dead. 

Locking his phone, Castiel sits up again, unable to tolerate the way the canvas beanbag chair is trapping heat against his back. His skin is itchy and gross, even the thin navy t-shirt he’s wearing suddenly feeling like one too many layers. With Gabriel and Dean still howling away—Dean having relocated to sit on the kitchen counter (feels like a bad sign, he looks comfortable)—Castiel gives up on hoping the end of their impromptu rehearsal is in sight.

Ignoring them for the time being, he wanders over to the closest window, giving the stuck sash a more valiant shove. It’s his umpteenth attempt today to raise the stubborn thing further than the six inches it opens, but Castiel’s no quitter. He manages to budge the glass another incremental inch or so before moving along and working on the rest of the windows. 

The only one that slides to the top is the one they use to exit onto the fire escape, and when Castiel reaches it, a nice (if somewhat hot) breeze floats through. Castiel hums and closes his eyes, the golden late-afternoon sun _finally_ beginning to disappear behind the other buildings. With any luck, it’ll take some of the day’s heat to bed with it. His shirt is still clinging obnoxiously to his shoulders and lower back, so without thinking, Castiel grabs the hem and tugs it up over his head.

Almost immediately, the singing stops and the apartment is _blissfully_ quiet, save for the sounds of the city drifting in from the street below. Confused, Castiel turns around, expecting to see Dean and Gabe poring over sheet music, or maybe even a menu. It is that time.

Instead, he finds Gabriel shaking with silent laughter, face turning red as he leans against the counter for support, and Dean— _oh._ Dean’s red as well, but for an apparent entirely different reason. He’s gazing hungrily at Castiel, wearing the expression Dean usually reserves for admiring a delicious piece of pie, one that he clearly wishes was—

 _Nope,_ Castiel tells himself. _Not going to complete that metaphor, not even inside my own head._

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean says huskily, eyes going glazed as he makes absolutely _no_ attempt to hide the fact that he’s checking Castiel out. Even his mouth is slightly open, lips parted and tempting. The only thing missing from this picture would be actual drool. 

The attention embarrasses Castiel terribly, and he reacts by crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously. Dean doesn’t seem to notice (or he doesn’t care—it’s probably that), biting his lip and nodding with approval. “I mean, I knew you’d been working out lately, but that _ink,_ damn, Cas. You’re kind of a secret badass, aren’t you?” 

“You know that I’m not, Dean,” Castiel mumbles, skirting around the counter and opening the fridge so that he can duck behind the door. It’s the wrong move, since it puts his back on full display once again, and Dean shifts so that he can continue to ogle shamelessly.

“I dunno, sunshine,” he replies, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “First you save my ass from those douchebags, taking on two of ‘em single-handedly. Then you bulk up like you’re thinking of getting into competitive bodybuilding, and now I find out you’re sporting more ink than an entire motorcycle club combined.”

“I have plenty of available skin, don’t exaggerate.” 

“Any past lovers make it on there?”

The strangled sound Gabriel lets out as he buries his face into the crook of his elbow earns him a scowl from Castiel. “No,” he tells Dean sharply, uncapping a beer via the side of the countertop and downing half of it in one go. That action does absolute _nothing_ to dissuade Dean’s interest. If anything, the bobbing of his throat seems to enthrall the man even more. Castiel feels hot, and it’s not entirely because of the stifling weather and lack of air movement in the room.

Of course, that’s the moment Dean chooses to jump down from his seat and make his way over to Castiel’s side. 

“I think that’s my cue,” Gabriel half-snorts, taking off for his “room” while Castiel’s protests flounder and die on his lips.

“Asshole,” he grumbles instead, as Gabe disappears behind his curtain with some vague excuse about texting Kali to meet up. It’s only the illusion of privacy, but it’s always worked for them—except for right now. Now, Castiel’s considering ripping the curtain down from where its rails are hanging suspended from the ceiling so that neither of them will ever have privacy again. _Fucker._

“Seriously, Cas,” Dean says, now standing in front of him and blocking his attempt to set Gabe’s curtains on fire telepathically. Castiel tries to stop glaring and focus, brought back into the present by Dean’s fingers brushing over his chest. They’re tracing the cross he has painted on his left pec, in the space right over his heart. It’s an ornate, elaborate thing with a wraparound banner that says, “ _Love is my religion.”_ One of the first pieces he had done during his wild, rebellious phase, back when he was still figuring himself out. 

“This is totally hot. I mean, knew you had _some_ ink,” Dean continues, hands moving down to Cas’ right forearm and turning it over. “Like this. Always wanted to ask you about it.” The tip of Dean’s index finger traces the edge of the long, silver, tri-sided blade that stretches from Castiel’s inner elbow to the tender skin of his wrist. 

It’s a weapon, meant to appear three-dimensional, as if it’s dropping into his hand. Castiel may be named after an angel, but he’s read the Bible (forced—eighteen years of church and Catholic schooling takes its toll). The angels in that book aren’t harp-playing, docile little cloud-sitters. They’re _warriors,_ crusaders, soldiers of God, and if Castiel’s going to be saddled with this name, he’s damn well going to live up to it in his own damn way.

“I call it an angel blade,” he explains, voice cracking a little until he clears it. Dean’s still touching him, but he finally seems to register how affected Castiel is and backs off slightly, stepping away and stuffing his hands into his pockets. To Castiel’s complete confusion, he immediately wishes he hadn’t, and starts mentally running through ways to encourage Dean to come back. 

To add insult to injury, Dean must see those emotions flicker over his face, because his concerned expression melts into a much more familiar smirk. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, Cas,” Dean teases, even as he steps closer again. Castiel blows out a breath, buying time by tipping his beer back and chugging. He ignores the burn that the cheap brew causes as it slides down his throat, as well as the reignited tingle in his body from Dean’s proximity. By the time the bottle is empty, Castiel’s gained enough courage to do what he really wants. 

Well, almost. He’s getting there.

Raising his eyebrows in challenge, Castiel points to his flat stomach, where a trail of bees disappears unceremoniously beneath the waistband of his shorts. Dean can’t see, but they travel down and around one thigh to finish at a detailed bouquet of colorful flowers and grass. “Were you looking to see _all_ of my tattoos in detail? Or just the ones that are visible already?” 

Dean’s eyes widen and he swallows heavily, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes,” he replies, nodding enthusiastically. His right hand wraps around the base of Castiel’s ribs, where a series of obscure characters stretch over bone and muscle. 

“That’s an Enochian symbol of protection,” Castiel explains, watching Dean’s face as he explores the lettering. “It’s a very, very dead language. Supposedly spoken by the angels themselves.”

“You take that name of yours really seriously,” Dean murmurs, but it doesn’t sound as if he’s poking fun. It seems like he’s genuinely fascinated, so Castiel just shrugs and continues enjoying his reactions. “What about this?” Dean asks, touching the pads of his fingers to Castiel’s left bicep, where the words “pray it won’t fade away” wrap in a circle around the image of a photorealistic compass. 

“Ah,” Castiel replies, biting back a smile. “The compass is for moral and ethical direction. Hard-won.”

“And the words?”

“Those are Beyoncé lyrics.”

The burst of laughter that explodes from Dean’s mouth is clearly unexpected by either of them. It’s delightful all the same, prompting Castiel to grin widely and bump their shoulders together. This has certainly been worth the emotional exposure thus far. Dean’s eyes crinkle at the corners, soft when they meet Castiel’s again. He looks like he wants to say (or perhaps do) something else, but in the end, he simply taps Castiel’s bicep again and says, “Alright, spin. Let’s see the rest.” 

Obediently, Castiel turns around, pleased when Dean lets out a low, admiring groan at what he sees. “Cas, I gotta be honest,” Dean says, as Cas tries not to shiver, feeling Dean’s fingers grazing appreciatively over his shoulder blades. “This might be _the_ sexiest tattoo I’ve ever seen.” 

“That’s very nice to hear,” Castiel says softly, touching his chin to his shoulder so that he can get the barest peek at his back. Not that he isn’t intimately acquainted with the imagery pressed into his skin, but he never gets tired of seeing it. From this vantage point and without a mirror, he can only really eyeball the feathers that spill onto his shoulders and upper arms, but they’re enough to remind him of what his entire back looks like. “I’m quite fond of them.” 

“They hurt to get?” Dean asks, hands still exploring. This isn’t the first time Castiel’s had someone become excessively touchy when they discover his tattoos. Gabriel, even, poked him up and down as he marveled at the unexpected ink, and there is absolutely no universe in which Gabriel has any interest in sleeping with Castiel. So, he knows that the tactile manifestation of Dean’s interest doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but that doesn’t stop it from meaning something to _him._

“Tattoos hurt, yes, Dean,” Castiel replies, smirking a little. Perhaps his snark will hide how much he doesn’t want Dean to stop tracing the inky blue-black feathers of the wings that cascade from his shoulders well into the dip of his lower back. 

There’s no need to worry—if anything, Dean gets closer, so close that Castiel can feel his breath heating the back of his neck. It should be uncomfortable, what with the temperature of the room, but Castiel can’t even care about that right now. Closing his eyes, he stands his ground and resists the urge to flee, to run from Dean and whatever is steadily building between them. 

_This is it,_ he tells himself. If Dean’s going to make a move, Castiel’s not going to turn him away, not this time. 

Dean’s hand brushes along the very bottom of his hairline, his presence heavy and electric and _right there._ Castiel’s breath catches in his chest, as Dean leans down and—

“Catch you later, kiddos—oh, shit.” Gabriel nearly falls over himself trying to recover the curtain he’s just thrown back, but it’s too late and the damage is done. Moment broken, Dean and Castiel both find themselves hopping away from each other as Gabriel cringes and makes his way towards the front door. “If it helps, I suspect no one is going to regret interrupting that moment more than me,” he says, semi-apologetic as he skates out into the hallway and salutes cartoonishly as the door closes behind him. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean wonders out loud.

Castiel shrugs, glancing between the door and Dean quickly before sighing. “Anyway,” he says. “Want to get drunk and prank call Crowley?” 

Dean grins, already reaching for the handle of the freezer to grab a bottle of the cheap vodka Castiel always keeps in there. “God,” he replies. “ _Hell_ yes.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: La Vie Boheme, Summer in the city, Cas and Dean heat up as the show cools down, there's a first time for everything, including "Contact".


	5. La Vie Boheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Oh,” Inias replies, flustered and blushing. “I wasn’t trying to imply—”_   
>  _“No, it’s—”_   
>  _“I just assumed you two were—”_   
>  _“We’re not,” Castiel says, and it feels like a lie._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elanor appearance ahead ;) Also a quick note that this show's timeline (even before the delay in this chapter) is super unrealistic for community theater. I've never been in a show that took more than 3 months from casting to curtain, but I stretched the timeline for RENT-theme reasons. Also, if a show derails the way this one does (thanks to Crowley), I've never seen that be recoverable, but...fic, lol. 
> 
> Warnings: Explicit content ahead! And Boston-speak.

Things don’t get any better for the show over the next couple of months, but they _do_ get better for Dean and Castiel. Even with the apparent end of _RENT’s_ run before its time, the little family they’ve built persists. This is obviously good for Sam, who manages to maintain his sobriety with the help and support of not just Jess, but everyone else he’s met and grown close to. 

Without rehearsals taking up all of their time, the group is free to hang out doing other things. None of them can sign onto other projects, at least not in the theater realm, since they all have signed contracts with Crowley. That’s not a particularly common thing—not for a community production, anyway—but then again, Crowley isn’t your average director/producer. Thanks to those contracts, Crowley has a full three months to find them a new venue and get the production up and running again. If he can’t do it in that time frame, the contracts are dissolved and they’re all free.

Until then, they’ll just have to try and enjoy the weird purgatory-space they’re trapped in and find some other way to spend their time. 

Being a group of young, mostly-single, attractive-looking people, that naturally translates to a _lot_ of partying, and a not-small number of semi-incestuous hookups. Charlie and Rowena is the pairing that surprises Castiel the most, but who is he to judge? Summer only amplifies that carefree, “you only live once” vibe, and more nights than not, the group gathers in the bars down the street from Dean and Castiel’s apartment building or up on their rooftop. 

Thanks to those nights and their concurrent employment at the Gas-N-Sip, Castiel sees just as much of Dean as ever, perhaps more. Despite his initial reservations, there haven’t been any obvious downsides to Dean becoming a fixture in Castiel’s life. In fact, Castiel’s realizing more and more clearly that the only thing he fears more than having Dean, is losing him when this is all over. The break from the show and getting to witness firsthand Dean’s complete lack of desire to move on from him goes a _long_ way towards tempering those insecurities, though.

And yet, it’s not until well over two months into their unexpected production hiatus that Castiel _truly_ begins to wrap his head around exactly how entrenched Dean has become in his day-to-day minutiae. It’s a small thing that does it—something silly that alerts him—and isn’t that always how the big moments go? You never see them coming.

Said moment is precipitated by a routine trip to the packie. It’s been two full weeks since Castiel’s heard from Crowley at all, but his paycheck dropped into his bank account right on schedule, just like it always does. Perhaps he should be more frugal, not knowing what the future holds, but then again…

 _I will not quote RENT unironically in my own head,_ Castiel tells himself firmly as he cleans out the cheap vodka from its bottom-shelf home at the back of the shop. Basket full, he makes his way up front, thankful that the line is short. This liquor store knows both him and Gabriel by name, often as they visit, so the clerk greeting him at the register isn’t anything unexpected.

“Evening, Castiel,” Inias says with a shy smile. He shakes his floppy brown hair out of his eyes as he begins to empty out the haul Castiel drops onto the counter in front of him. “No Dean tonight?” 

“No, he—” Castiel stops abruptly, cutting off his own automatic reply. Instead of continuing, he cocks his head to the side and blinks at Inias, ignoring the growing line of patrons forming behind him. “Really?” he asks, trying not to sound affronted when he’s really just curious. He doesn’t know Inias _well_ (they had drinks and one terrible, drunken make-out session in a bar bathroom a hundred years ago and now Inias sells him liquor), so the comment seems somewhat out of left-field. Are he and Dean _really_ together that often?

“Oh,” Inias replies, flustered and blushing. “I wasn’t trying to imply—”

“No, it’s—”

“I just assumed you two were—”

“We’re not,” Castiel says, and it feels like a lie. 

“He’s been with you every time you’ve stopped in for the last month or so,” Inias adds, almost apologetically. He carefully places Castiel’s last bottle into a second giant brown paper bag and slides it forward. Clumsily, Castiel fumbles his cash, handing over way too much in his haste to escape from this entire situation, which he has somehow made awkward for absolutely no good reason. 

“Sorry,” Castiel mumbles when Inias returns the excessive amount of change back over the counter. 

Biting his lip, Inias hesitates for a moment and then ventures, “So, does that mean you’re—”

“I have to go,” Castiel replies quickly. Panicked, he grabs the two bags and—clanking and crinkling up a storm—bolts for the exit. The bell tinkles mockingly above his head as the automatic door opens and closes again behind him, leaving Castiel breathing a sigh of relief in the disgustingly humid August air. New England summers are notoriously muggy and gross, although once the sun goes down in Boston, the breeze that comes in off of the Bay can be quite refreshing.

Unfortunately for Castiel, the sun isn’t down yet. It’s lingering in the sky like it has a personal vendetta against him being anything but sweaty and _hot_ as hell. _Rude._ His shirt sticks to his back as he walks, the heat making the burden he’s carrying feel twice as heavy. He should have brought his shopping cart, but the little wheeled thing makes him feel somewhat elderly. Plus, this doubles as an arm-day workout. 

Even still, he’s not upset that Dean will be joining him around the halfway point to home, just in time to prevent Castiel from having to admit to himself that he _can’t_ carry eight bottles of alcohol the better part of ten blocks.

Of course, that thought circles Castiel right back to Inias’ comments, much as he tries to avoid dwelling on them. He sighs, fruitlessly attempting to wipe his forehead on his shoulder, since both arms are occupied. When he fails, a drop of sweat trickles down his temple and hovers right in front of his ear. Castiel growls in frustration, and then wonders what he’s really upset about. 

He and Dean’t _aren’t_ a couple, they aren’t. 

_Are they?_

They do spend all of their time together, both at work and in their off-hours. Dinners with Gabriel and Sam more nights than not. Sometimes breakfast, too. Delivering meals to the ladies down the hall. Grocery shopping, alcohol runs, hanging out together at the bar. They’re always passing out on the roof or in each other’s apartments. In fact, all four of them tend to come and go from both lofts freely, whether by the regular doors or the fire escape, stealing leftovers and coffee, toilet paper and soap.

Hell, when Sam was getting sober, Dean, Cas, and Gabriel all swore off every substance but pot right alongside him. 

Neither here nor there, but Sam had asked them not to continue that particular attempt at solidarity—something about needing to resist temptations, not act as if they don’t exist—Castiel just does what Dean asks him to do when it comes to his brother. He had his doubts about drinking in front of Sam, but it’s Sam’s life, and he never seems bothered, happy with his pot and nursing a single beer. Dean says it’s not that Sam has a problem with alcohol, it’s that he doesn’t want to risk the depressant effects and vulnerability of relapse that would come from being drunk.

He must have a handle on it, must know what he’s talking about, because Sam’s doing well.

And as it relates to Castiel’s mental gymnastics, Sam and Gabriel certainly aren’t dating. Jess is the only person in the world the younger Winchester has eyes for, in that sense. Therefore, Castiel can’t necessarily say that any of those things they _all_ do with each other mean _more_ when applied solely to him and Dean. 

As he walks, Castiel only becomes increasingly confused. He knows that he and Dean act differently together than Sam and Gabriel do. That blanket comparison is missing a _lot_ of nuance, but it’s all he really has to go on. For the first time, Castiel considers that they _might_ be dating, that Dean might simply be acting extremely patient with him, and that in turn, he’s being an oblivious asshole. It’s not as if Dean’s gone out with or brought anyone else home in ages, at least that Castiel knows about.

He _would_ know—he has to admit that—with how much time they spend together, how often he sees Dean...Castiel would know.

 _Good lord,_ he thinks. _Am I dating Dean?!_

Of course, it’s just as he’s seriously considering this possible revelation that Castiel makes it to the Gas-N-Sip. It’s also less than five minutes before Dean’s shift is scheduled to end. As he strolls across the parking lot and between the pumps, Castiel does his best to look calm and collected, and not like he’s having an existential crisis. With any luck, no signs of his internal struggle are poking through. If they are, then hopefully whatever’s showing on his face can be written off by his current laden-down predicament and the weather. 

More customer-alert bells tingling, but at least this time he gets to put his bags down, instead of picking them up. Castiel’s arms are starting to ache more than his confused head. 

The blast of cold air as he enters the store is both startling and welcome, and he stops dead in the middle of the doorway, closing his eyes and just relishing the breeze. From somewhere to his left, he can hear Elanor talking.

“All I’m saying, Dean, is that sometimes a rock is just a rock, and sometimes they tell incredible stories,” she says. Eyes still shut, Castiel struggles not to smile—he’s heard _many_ a story (and lack thereof) about Elanor’s rocks in his time. 

“Cas? You okay, buddy?” The second voice is Dean’s, and Castiel opens his eyes to find him leaning across the counter, looking him over with a mix of concern and amusement. “You alive over there?” 

_Do people who are dating call each other “buddy”?_

“Barely,” Castiel grumbles. 

Elanor’s standing on the customer side of the register, and she hurries to his aide when Castiel shifts the two bags in his arms and probably gives the appearance that he won’t so much as make it to put them down. Handing one of the parcels over, Elanor grunts slightly, seemingly surprised by the weight.

“Jesus, Castiel,” she huffs, readjusting her grip while the bottles clink together somewhat precariously. “How much do y’all drink in one night?”

“This will last us several weeks,” Castiel replies defensively. “I hope. Maybe.” He goes to slide his own bag onto the counter just to shake out his arms, and Elanor risks it all to jut an arm out and stop him.

“Watch the rock!” 

“Got it,” Dean jumps in, biting back a smile. He scoops up the offending geode, holding it high for Elanor’s approval before replacing it on the shelf above his head. “The rock with the incredible story is safe,” he says cheekily.

Elanor rolls her eyes. “Get your crap and get out of here,” she says. “I’m closing tonight.” 

Shooting her a half-assed salute, Dean checks the balance on the register, signs the shift logs, and shrugs out of his blue vest. Rounding the counter, he tucks a portion of the material into his back right pocket, leaving the rest hanging like a handkerchief. It’s hard for Castiel to _not_ think about the related code, or believe that Dean doesn’t know it, especially considering his ridiculous obsession with cowboys and the Wild West. 

The fact is, Dean isn’t naive like Castiel, who only knows about the history of the pocket-handkerchief and its intersection with the gay community because _Gabriel_ is a perverted whore who thinks everything is dirty.

So, of _course,_ Dean catches him staring, winking when Castiel glances up from the swinging vest to meet his gaze. 

_Maybe he does know._

Castiel flushes and tries to hide his face behind the giant brown bag of alcohol he’s still holding and never got to put down. Laughing at a very confused Elanor, Dean relieves her of her own bag and gives her a side-hug goodbye before bolting for the door and holding it open for Cas.

“Such a gentleman,” Castiel mutters as he slips by, Dean’s body so much hotter against his arm than the boiling world outside could ever be. 

“After you, sunshine,” Dean replies, tone teasing.

“Behave, boys!” Elanor calls after them from inside as the door swings shut.

***

“You’re such an old man,” Dean complains when Sam announces he’s headed downstairs to turn in for the night. Jessica’s on his arm, the two of them having spent the entire evening curled up together on an old mattress shoved against one of the low walls framing the roof. Even long before the sun was fully gone and the breeze from the ocean turned the atmosphere entirely tolerable, neither of them had any qualms about being draped across each other’s laps. 

Castiel raises an eyebrow at Dean in disbelief. For his part, he can’t believe the two of them stayed as long as they did. “They’re not going to _sleep,_ Dean,” he says bluntly. In response, Jessica laughs loudly while Sam covers his face with his hand.

Ever the older brother, Dean glares up at Sam’s towering frame. He’s hardly intimidating, sunk deep into the clutches of Castiel’s beanbag chair (dragged up here for the occasion), but that doesn’t stop Dean. “Aren’t you not supposed to be doing that stuff?” he questions. “Sex and—” He waves his hand around, squinting drunkenly with one eye. “Ain’t part of your program being good on your own and all that? Happy with yourself before you get into a relationship?” 

“Not that it’s any of your business, Dean,” Sam replies in an attempt at frosty, the effect somewhat lost by the stringy hair falling into his eyes, “But my sponsor approves. Jess has been coming to meetings with me for months, and I’m—” Here, Sam pauses and gazes down at her, very obviously completely smitten. 

_What it must be like to have someone look at you in that way,_ Castiel thinks, genuinely awed.

“Yeah, well. I’m just lookin’ out for you,” Dean says gruffly. He’s avoiding eye contact and spinning a mostly-empty whiskey bottle like a dreidel on the cement roof. 

“I’m good,” Sam tells him firmly, _end of conversation_. “I’m _really,_ really good.” Jessica smiles back at him. This time, when Sam moves towards the propped-open door that leads into the enclosed stairwell, Dean doesn’t protest. 

As the duo disappears inside, he does sigh and drop his head back against the wall perpendicular to the one Sam and Jess just vacated, though. Castiel briefly eyes up their spot—an old twin mattress, salvaged from God-know-where and repurposed as a couch of sorts. It’s currently covered with a sheet that’s far too thin for Castiel to not consider where said mattress must have been prior to finding a new home on the roof, and secretly, Castiel’s kind of glad Dean picked the beanbag. 

Even if that leaves him seated far less comfortably in one of his fire-escape lawn chairs, instead of drunkenly finding excuses to get closer to Dean. In his currently-tipsy state, Castiel can’t quite decide whether the unknowns of the mattress might be worth the potential reward, so he stays put and sips quietly from the bottle of vodka he’s been nursing. 

“That shit must be warm by now,” Dean remarks, which draws Castiel’s attention back from questionable bedding and its many potential uses.

“Hmm?” he replies, glancing down at the half-empty container and then over his shoulder to where a plastic tub full of mostly-melted ice sits. Castiel’s pretty sure they got it from Target (and that it’s meant to hold children’s toys—stuffed animals, most likely). The leftover alcohol is bobbing or sunk to the bottom underneath the waterline, labels peeling off in a rather unappetizing fashion. Castiel looks mournfully down at the liquid sloshing in his hand. “Yes,” he agrees, somewhat slowly. “But the colder drinks are over there. And I am...here.” 

Lifting his head, Castiel blinks innocently over at Dean, who responds by smiling quite charmingly and hoisting himself to his feet with a groan. It’s difficult to get out of that beanbag on a good day—never mind while half in the bag—and Castiel is impressed. That is, until Dean demonstrates just how difficult it is by tripping over his own ankle, nearly falling on his ass. During the flailing attempt to right himself, he kicks his empty whiskey bottle with the toe of his boot, sending it spinning and spitting the last droplets of liquor left inside out onto the pavement. 

For some reason, this strikes Castiel as extremely humorous, and he giggles.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean complains, limping a little on what Castiel has learned is his “bad” knee—some long-past injury Dean doesn’t talk about—over to the ice bin. On the way, he snatches Castiel’s bottle from his hand, capping it before dropping it into the water with a quiet _plop._ “Still cold,” Dean declares triumphantly as he swishes his fingers in the bottle’s wake, eventually plunging his entire hand in to fish something else out.

Surfacing with a bottle of Burnett’s Cherry, Dean couldn’t possibly look more disappointed, which only makes Castiel laugh harder. “This stuff is disgusting,” Dean mutters, twisting the cap off and taking a long swig anyway. “Blech,” he sputters, but only after swallowing the mouthful down.

Amused, Castiel pushes himself out of his chair and makes his way over, procuring the vodka from Dean’s hand and opening his throat for a long drink. He finishes smoothly and licks his lips, a movement Dean follows unabashedly with his eyes. “You’re a baby,” Castiel tells him with a mocking shrug, and Dean’s expression immediately turns affronted.

In response, Dean dunks his hand back into the ice water, yanking it out with a splash that chills Cas’ thigh. With a devious grin, he reaches out and wraps his palm mercilessly around the back of Castiel’s neck.

Castiel yelps. “Dean, _fuck!”_

But Dean doesn’t let go. Instead, he yanks Castiel forward so that they’re pressed together, shoulder to thigh. “Now who’s the baby?” he asks smugly, dipping down to re-wet his hand and do the same thing all over again. The cold water drips onto the collar of Castiel’s t-shirt, and while it’s actually quite refreshing, he’ll never admit that to Dean.

“ _Rude!”_ he complains instead, wiggling around and trying to escape from the icy fingers on his neck until Dean wraps his _other_ arm around his back and then _very_ suddenly, Castiel realizes the predicament he’s found himself in. 

He stills, a warm breeze fluttering teasingly around their bodies, the sounds of the city at night humming steadily down on the ground below.

Dean’s face is _right_ there, exhaling sweet, whiskey-tinged breath in his face, both of them breathing harder than usual, chests touching on the inhale. “Fuck,” Castiel repeats, this time barely above a whisper. He can feel Dean’s hipbones, feel _Dean_ growing slightly hard between them, and he knows Dean can feel him, too. 

“Just say the word, sunshine,” Dean says softly, pretending to be kind. “Just say the word and I’ll dump you ass-first into this bucket of water, we’ll forget this ever happened.” Despite the antagonistic framing, it’s still an out, and one that Castiel would be lying if he didn’t admit to considering. Dean bounces his head to the side and back, thoughtful. “Well, we’ll forget the rest—I’m definitely telling everyone that I got you wet.” He grins and winks and something in Castiel snaps.

“Shut up,” he growls, diving forward and wrapping both arms around Dean’s neck. Dean’s as charming as he is beautiful, and Castiel should definitely consider why this is so much easier with half a bottle of vodka coursing through his veins. But as good as Dean _looks,_ as wonderful as he’s felt in Castiel’s imagination, each sensation _now_ is a hundred times better in reality, alcohol blurring the way or not. 

The whole situation doesn’t exactly lend itself to _slow down and think about what you’re doing,_ and Castiel is surprisingly okay with that. Even though he’s had his big gay freak-out—done his reckoning with his upbringing and his ex-religion and everything that comes with it, _fully_ (yes, really), come to terms with and learned to love who he is at heart—he’s never, ever crossed this line. 

Kissing a date at the end of the night or making out with Inias in a bar bathroom—that’s nothing like what Castiel is looking down the barrel of tonight, nothing he ever felt like he could let himself _have._ It seems like it should be a _bigger_ moment, like moving forward _should_ give Castiel pause. Really, though, there’s nothing remotely difficult about following his desires and whims, in shoving Dean backward until he collapses down onto the nasty mattress with a soft, _“Oof.”_

There’s nothing complicated about smiling softly when Dean grins up at him. Nothing confusing about letting himself be pulled down and into Dean’s lap and letting Dean kiss him again and again and again, until Castiel barely remembers his own name. He barely even notices the stupid mattress becoming their backdrop as Dean lays down completely, and Castiel chases his mouth without thinking twice.

He _wants_ Dean, wants to rip his clothes off and press their bodies together. Wants to lick Dean and taste him and have Dean’s hands and mouth all over him, too. Straddling Dean is almost a surreal experience—the idea that this man _wants_ him, is clutching at him and kissing him back—

No matter what Dean has said in the past—no matter how often he’s been caught staring or commenting lustfully about Castiel’s body—the insecure part of Castiel that still rears its ugly head whenever it’s _most_ inconvenient wasn’t fully convinced that Dean’s interest was true. 

It’s undeniable now, though, hard and obvious between his legs the way that it is, and Castiel’s never been so turned on, didn’t know he _could_ feel like this. 

Growling into his mouth, Castiel’s knees tighten at Dean’s hips, elbows bracketing either side of his head as Dean’s tongue swipes between his lips for the first time. There’s a hand in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp and another winding its way beneath the hem of his t-shirt to rest on the small of his back. 

_Bliss. More._ Castiel can’t imagine ever getting enough.

Through all of that, Castiel’s inexperience makes him shake, makes him painfully nervous that he’s not doing something _right._ Too fast or two slow, not aggressive or manly enough for what Dean probably expects, or any number of other things Castiel has no way to know that he’s doing wrong but almost definitely is. Fears aside, he does have to cautiously admit—as he pulls back from Dean’s slick mouth just slightly in order to catch his breath—Dean certainly isn’t acting as though he’s not enjoying what’s happening.

He’s heavy-lidded as he peers up at Castiel, hand slipping from behind Castiel’s head down to tuck a too-short piece of hair behind his ear—it doesn’t stay. “Hey,” Dean says huskily, one corner of his mouth ticking up in a smile as his fingers trail Castiel’s jaw. “This okay?”

The enthusiastic nod Castiel gives him in reply must be a _bit_ too quick for the sort of easygoing, “definitely not my first time” vibe he was hoping for, but Dean’s resulting, sweet laugh is worth the slight humiliation. Dean is so _bright_ when he laughs, so full of life and endearing, and Castiel never stood a chance against that.

His lips are soft when Castiel’s touch them again, and he lies still against the mattress, allowing Castiel to kiss him carefully, to brush their noses together, to tug at his bottom lip and then let it go. There’s a pause, a gentle breeze blowing and lighting up their sweaty skin as they breathe into each other’s space, and then Dean’s opening for him, in sync with Castiel’s desire to lick deep and slide their tongues together. 

Dean moans in the back of his throat, the sound vibrating into Castiel in a way that makes him shiver and kiss harder. When he does, Dean’s hands drop to his ass, squeezing and tugging him down so that their groins are flush together, grinding slow and sinuous and _hot_. Silently, Castiel thanks his past self for changing into sweat shorts before coming up to the roof, and for the slushie machine malfunction that resulted in Dean needing to do the same, because Dean out of his usual jeans is a rare sight, indeed. 

He loses himself in Dean, in the best way he’s found _to_ let go and be mindless.

For once, Castiels’s fears stay in the back of his mind, his insecurities held at bay. Dean’s responsive noises and obvious enthusiasm are enough to boost his confidence, to keep him in the moment. Those uncertainties _do_ make him notice certain— _strange_ things, though. Like how hot the shells of Dean’s ears are brushing the thin skin of his increasingly weak forearms. Or how the sticky-damp state of Dean’s t-shirt makes it incredibly difficult to encourage the fabric to ride up over his stomach, no matter how determinedly Castiel wiggles against him. 

“You’re shaking,” Dean murmurs into his ear, pressing a kiss to the bolt of Castiel’s jaw, teeth scraping his stubble right after. His hips are unfailing in their rhythmic press and release, while Castiel just fights to keep up. He’s fully hard now and so is Dean, and he’s never been more frustrated at his awkwardness, his lack of knowledge on how to get from _this_ to eliminating the clothing between them and having just _Dean_. 

His arms _are_ tired, though.

“I—I’m…” His words fail him as Dean lips skate over the vulnerable expanse of his neck, all the way down to brush briefly over the cross decorating his chest. He can almost feel the smirk as Dean's face moves back up, latching on over a pulse point and sucking until Castiel gives up on talking completely, eyes rolling back in his head. 

“Don’t worry, Cas,” Dean says, licking over the tender bruise he’s created. “I’ve got you.” The only warning Castiel gets for what happens next is Dean tightening strong arms around his back. Then suddenly, the whole world spins, Castiel’s arms are blessedly relieved of their burden, and he’s staring up at a hazy-black night sky, ambient light drowning out everything cosmic but the moon. 

It’s still beautiful, cloud-streaked and cooler as the evening drags on, but more importantly, Dean’s hands are _finally_ down his pants. Nothing about this is particularly smooth or savvy—it’s the two of them struggling to get shorts and underwear down over hips, at least enough to pull their cocks out—but Castiel would willingly go to his death a thousand times over just to have Dean _once,_ like this. 

It’s Dean panting hotly into his mouth when Castiel recovers his wits enough to reach a hand in between them and touch him for the first time. It’s hot, and it’s sticky from the weather and the heat building between them, it’s a horn honking and some asshole yelling on the street below. It's the disgusting mattress sort of _squelching_ beneath him and Castiel not giving _one_ single shit about it because Dean has his balls in one hand and Castiel’s managed to get his own fist around _both_ of them, and who the fuck _cares_ if his shorts are still tangled around his knees?

It’s slightly too dry, at least until Dean tells him to lift his hand so that he can lick it, and Castiel almost comes just from watching— _feeling—_ Dean tongue at his palm to get it as wet as possible. 

“Dean, _Dean, Dean,_ ” is the extent of articulation Castiel can accomplish, winding up clutching Dean’s shoulder and biting down on his t-shirt covered collarbone as Dean wraps a hand over his own and thrusts. “Oh, _fuck,”_ he whispers into the now-damp fabric. “ _Fuck._ ” 

Castiel’s eyes go cloudy as his limbs tingle and tremble, heels digging into a pair of springs as he fights coming too quickly, but this is—this is so much _more,_ so different from getting himself off in the shower or to his own fantasies and some lotion before bed. 

His major mistake is taking his eyes off of the sky to look at Dean’s face. The lust and sweet satisfaction he sees is just too much. Dean is so _soft_ and beautifully aroused but also so smugly pleased with his effect on Castiel that it’s impossible to ignore. Lucky for him, Castiel’s far too preoccupied to give him shit about it.

“C’mon, Cas, you can come, sweetheart. I want to, too,” Dean says, before dipping down and capturing Castiel’s lips. His pace quickens as his fist moves faster, guiding Castiel’s hand and pressing them together in a way that’s so delicious Castiel couldn’t begin to form it into words. 

Dean kisses him again, and Castiel closes his eyes, giving in to the heat boiling up at the base of his spine and setting his whole body on fire. The muscles in his abdomen tighten and he comes hard enough that he shakes and his leg jerks, and all Castiel can do is hold onto the fistful of Dean’s t-shirt he has in one hand and the shoulder he’s got in the other.

“ _Dean._ ” 

Somehow, the clean-up and the aftermath isn’t awkward. It’s Dean sacrificing his boxers for the cause, a handful of soft, playful kisses, and a lot of laughing. Castiel’s _never_ felt so right, so accepted. They end up falling asleep on the gross mattress, drunk and satisfied, curled up in each other’s arms. It’s too hot to sleep that way—borderline uncomfortable—and Castiel relishes every single sweaty second of it.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time:  
>  _Without you, the tides change,  
>  the boys run, the oceans crash.  
> The crowds roar, the days soar,  
> the babies cry...  
> Without you._
> 
>  _The world revives, colors renew._  
>  But I know blue, only blue. Lonely blue—within me, blue...  
> Without you.


	6. Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sam’s going to be psyched,” Dean is saying, already getting out his phone to text. He clears his throat, keeping his eyes on the screen. “You know, he and Jess made up like ten minutes after they had that fight.”_
> 
> _Castiel’s mouth goes dry, but he forces himself to speak anyway. “It’s almost as if you can fight and still care about each other,” he offers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're feeling sensitive, don't worry, the angst is resolved by the end of the chapter.

_“I’m sorry.”_

From the wings of the stage, Castiel watches Pam emotionally gearing up to portray Mimi falling helplessly back into her drug addiction in the wake of her relationship struggles with Roger. 

“Go Lights, spotlight mark four on Roger, mark two on Mimi,” he says into his headset. He’s pleasantly surprised when the corresponding beams appears exactly on cue, one to follow Dean as he walks away, the other showcasing Pam alone and lit from above. Charlie’s on point tonight (or possibly that’s Kevin, acting like a responsible adult for once, and therefore not requiring Charlie to babysit him).

“Coming?” Dean sings, from just beyond his reach, _not_ that Castiel’s fighting the urge to stretch a hand out and touch him, definitely not.

“I’m fine, go,” Pam replies, her smile sad and half-hearted, worse when Dean-as-Roger actually leaves. She turns to face the audience, and that’s the last cue.

“Chuck, go for Mimi’s dealer,” Castiel says, watching a shadowy Chuck shove Cole until he swaggers out from the wings on stage left, looking every bit of the part he’s playing. “Sound go.” Not like Castiel needed validation, but “shady, opportunistic drug pusher,” was definitely the right casting choice for Cole. 

_“I can practically hear you thinking from back here Castiel, and knock it off._ ” Crowley’s voice filters into his ear and Castiel doesn’t bother to reply, because he’s right, after all. He smirks, though, satisfied. Cole as Roger would have been a disaster.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” Cole projects to the audience, as the superior Roger finds his way to Castiel’s side. They both stand quietly and watch Pam transform completely into a devastated Mimi as she interacts with her dealer, Dean’s hand comforting on the small of Castiel’s back. Once again, the gesture feels way too familiar, like all of their history is water under the bridge, just like that. Just because Dean says so. 

Castiel doesn’t hate that idea one bit.

“It’s going to be a—a happy new year,” Cole sings, as Pam— _Mimi_ —accepts the prop dime bag and breaks down in tears. He pats her shoulder, grinning an absolutely feral grin. 

_Cole is a little bit terrifying,_ Castiel thinks. 

“There, there,” Cole says.

“Fade out to black,” Castiel calls into his headset, before indulging himself and leaning slightly into Dean’s shoulder. “Can’t promise I won’t lose it during ‘Without You,’ Dean,” he whispers, not daring to turn and make eye contact. His own are already burning, just thinking about what’s to come. 

Dean doesn’t reply, but his hand drops to thread fingers in between Castiel’s, squeezing in contemplative understanding. Castiel swallows, taking a second to compose himself before letting go, as Chuck calls the set-up cues for the next number. 

By the time he’s inhaled and exhaled and is back to feeling steady, Billie and Meg are well into dressing each other down in the middle of the stage. They launch—with the kind of enthusiasm only the two of them could bring—into “Take Me or Leave Me,” with the company looking on in carefully-crafted mock-horror and amusement. Upstage from Billie and Meg, the rest of the cast sits in various poses on tables that are decorated to look like Maureen and Joanne’s engagement party. Like everything else with their sets, it’s more elaborate than necessary, because Crowley. 

Dean’s missing from Castiel’s side and in his place by Pam’s before Castiel even notices he’s gone ( _shame on him—this is his_ job), and the whole number runs ice-cream smooth.

Of course, ice-cream smooth means that in mere minutes, every couple in the show (save for Angel and Collins) are broken up and completely miserable, and that’s not the easiest thing for Castiel to take. 

Now, he’s not delusional—Castiel _is_ fully aware that this is just a show, not some ironic mirror of his life or an actual parallel to any of his friends’ very real struggles and relationships. 

Except—

There _is_ so much of each of them (him, Dean, _Sam—all_ of them) to be found on that stage and in each of these songs and stories—it’s hard for Castiel to remember that sometimes. Hard to distance himself and maintain that important (sanity-preserving) boundary between life and fiction. 

The thing is, Castiel cares deeply for all of the people that make up this cast and crew, and that means caring about the characters they play, too. Watching them fall apart—even when it’s make-believe—doesn’t _feel_ good. After all, for everything good this show has brought to his life and theirs, the road to _arrive_ at anything resembling a happy place was more than a little bumpy at times. It’s hard for Castiel to see echoes of that difficult journey reflected back at him through the storyline of the show.

Somewhat unwittingly, when he sees those familiar bumps in the road play out on stage, Castiel remembers what they feel like in real life, too. 

***

_Late August_

It’s been three weeks since Dean and Castiel have spoken, and Castiel still can’t come to terms with who the villain in this story is. He’s angry first and foremost at Crowley, because if Crowley hadn’t screwed up and lost them their performance space, likely none of this would have happened to begin with. 

Secondly, he’s mad at Dean, because Dean is an insensitive, demanding _dick_ who doesn’t know him at all _._ He’s equally pissed at Gabriel, because Gabriel won’t tell him what he wants to hear. That being that he’s the innocent, wronged party in all of this, and that he bears zero responsibility for fixing it. 

He’s also _furious_ at Elanor, because she won’t fire Dean based on Castiel not currently wanting to be around him _or_ switch his shift schedule so that he can avoid Dean altogether.

Completely unreasonable. 

Most of all, though, he’s angry at himself, because Castiel is many things, but he’s neither stupid nor oblivious to his own motivations. Unfortunately, he’s spent far too many years doing copious amounts of self-work to now be able to get away with lying to himself, no matter how much he might wish to do so at the moment. 

And perhaps he’s a _little_ bit mad at Sam, for falling off the wagon and throwing a wrench into a life that was going way too well. He’s back on now, was really only _off_ in theory (Sam bought the drugs, didn’t actually use them), but the entire scare shook Castiel to his core. Despite not involving him in the least, somehow, the shock of it made his entire situation with Dean abruptly too serious and too real, and sent Castiel backing away in a hurry. 

It started with a scream.

The morning after they did what they did on the roof of their apartment building, Dean and Castiel were awoken by harsh, hot sun beating down on their faces and angry screaming coming from inside the stairwell. Snorting awake, Dean jerked bolt upright immediately, dislodging Castiel from his pillow (Dean’s chest) and sending him rolling off of the mattress and onto the already-sizzling concrete.

“Ouch,” Castiel complained, swiftly shuffling back onto the bed. His hands and knees were already red and hot to the touch from that brief contact, like he’d been dropped onto a frying pan and not just a roof.

The sun’s position in the sky suggested it couldn’t have been much past seven a.m., but tell that to the weather. All Castiel could do was grimace at being burned and sticky all over, hoping that whatever was going down inside, it wouldn’t keep him from the relief of a shower for _too_ long. 

Or from coffee. 

_Coffee first._ Coffee, shower, nap—in that order. 

Shoving his way to his feet (and ignoring the headache that had begun brewing behind his eyes), Castiel yawned and shot a tentative glance over at the man standing next to him. It’s not as if fights and disorder were uncommon in South Boston or even in their building; Castiel couldn’t imagine the situation downstairs was something he needed to concern himself with in the least. Definitely not over his other priorities.

Dean, eyes barely open, didn’t seem to share his opinion. As Castiel watched, Dean squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head, straining to listen to the distant, angry voices. After only a moment or two, he apparently confirmed some internal suspicion, not that he apparently felt like sharing with the class. Taking off like a shot, Dean sprinted shoeless towards the stairwell door, disappearing inside. 

“Wait,” Castiel called after him, his possibly-still-drunk brain making his vision spin when he stepped forward off of the mattress. Sprinting was out of the question, but stumbling quickly was certainly on the table. “I’ll go with you.” 

By the time Castiel made it down to the level where Dean and Sam’s apartment was, the yelling had subsided. He stepped off the last stair just in time to see Jessica storming away, flip flops smacking against each stair as she angrily descended the next flight. Sam was left behind, calling after her in obvious despair. As he hung dramatically over the railing, an exasperated Dean was doing his best to drag his brother back and away from the edge. 

“Dean—” Castiel began, only intending to ask if there was anything he could do to help.

“It’s not a good time, Cas,” Dean huffed dismissively, slinging one arm around Sam’s waist and ushering him inside the apartment, reluctant as Sam was to allow it. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

With the door unceremoniously slammed shut in his face, Castiel didn’t have much choice but to head back to his own apartment. He got his cool shower, but it didn’t feel as satisfying as he hoped it would. He had some coffee, but it tasted extra bitter. Gabriel was off God-knows-where doing God-knows-who, leaving the emptiness in their apartment feeling heavier than it ever had before. 

Castiel sat on one of their mismatched barstools at the peeling kitchen island, staring listlessly into the dregs of his mug for a very long time. 

Every so often, there’d be a muffled shout or the sound of something banging drifting up from downstairs, but Dean had made his boundaries extremely clear, so Castiel stayed put. 

The most difficult thing for Castiel to come to terms with is that this was not the end. If it was, perhaps he’d have an excuse for his behavior, after all. If Dean truly blew him off, if that bit were all there was to the story.

But Dean _did_ come back. He came up to Castiel’s apartment later that night, full of apologies and entirely ready to pick up exactly where they left off (and probably needing a friend— _fuck,_ hindsight). Unfortunately, by that point, Castiel had enjoyed _way_ too much time to think, and he’d sent himself into quite the downward spiral. 

Wallowing in a pit of despair (and sheets that were several days past laundry day, at that), Castiel lost the will to suppress his fears and insecurities the way he’d done so well the night before. He laid there, thinking about all the reasons he’d pushed Dean away to begin with, all the reasons Dean _should_ want nothing to do with him, all the ways he couldn’t have and would never measure up in Dean’s eyes.

It wasn’t that simple, though. There were so many feelings and emotions, all tangled up and confusing Castiel with their conflicting implications. Instead of trying to sort them out, Castiel stared blankly at the ceiling fan above his bed. The thing was barely circulating the air, even at full-speed. He sighed. In his clean t-shirt and boxers—and having not moved for at least six hours—he was finally _not_ sweating his ass off, at least. 

That didn’t help him feel any better.

Despite everything, Castiel knew that he _wanted_ to move forward with Dean. He just couldn’t figure out how, couldn’t sort out how to _let_ Dean change him, to make him different, make him better. Make him someone who _trusts_ , who takes chances. The sting of being closed out from what was clearly a family matter, that line drawn in the sand that showed no matter how much Castiel had been through with the Winchesters, he _wasn’t_ family—

It was too much. It _hurt._

So when Dean showed up a bit later with pizza, beer, and a doe-eyed apology, Castiel thanked him very formally and said that he was simply too tired to “hang out” that night, but that Dean could stay for a meal, if he liked. He could tell that Dean was confused, but Castiel just couldn’t bring himself to let his walls down again. 

His chest already ached so badly. 

In retrospect, Dean _must_ have been confused, because he came in anyway. They wound up eating awkwardly over the coffee table in silence, Castiel fixated on his pizza but unable to ignore Dean stealing glances at him in his peripheral vision. The visit culminated with Dean (rightfully, Castiel can admit that now) tossing down his food and exploding at Castiel over his “goddamn hot and cold bullshit.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Dean ranted, winging the pizza box across the room so that it landed upside-down on Gabriel’s bed. “You kiss me, you sleep with me, I think I’m finally getting somewhere with you and then—Cas, what the fuck, man? You’re up, you’re down, you want me and then you don’t, Jesus Christ.” He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, turning it spiky and wild and begging for Castiel’s fingers.

What _was_ wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just say _yes?_

He didn’t, though. He didn’t say yes. Even though he wanted to, even though Dean stood there, waiting, practically begging him to do so. He let the fear and the hurt and the anxiety win—Castiel just sat there on the couch, staring down at his angel blade tattoo in confusion and shame. 

What he _wanted_ to say was so terribly embarrassing— _I’ve never done this before, I’m insecure. I don’t know_ how _to move forward, I’m scared and you hurt my feelings and I need your help—_ that at the time, it seemed far better ( _safer)_ to say nothing at all. 

But then Dean left. “Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up into the air and stomping for the door. “Fine, Cas. Let me know if you ever get your head out of your ass.” 

The worst part of a dramatic fight like that was cleaning up the aftermath. 

Not that Castiel had much (any) experience with jilted lovers, but he decided very quickly that it was not a thing he’d like to repeat. Alone with his thoughts, having to carry out menial chores just so that he could continue about his mediocre life... _unpleasant._ He spent the hour following Dean’s departure scrubbing pizza sauce out of Gabriel’s comforter, not that Gabe would even probably notice it there to begin with. 

And then he spent the next three weeks pretending that he was the victim and not the villain. Castiel dug in so deep—ignoring Dean in the hallways, avoiding him at work, even blowing off Sam when he tried to hang out—that it became far too difficult to simply admit he was wrong and ask for forgiveness (no matter how many times Gabriel tried to convince him to do so).

The more Castiel missed Dean (and he did—as it turned out, the sting of his hurt feelings only worsened when mixed with unresolved affection and the clarity that came with distance), the further out of his reach Dean seemed to drift. To be fair, Dean didn’t try to mend things again either, he simply ignored Castiel right back.

It all seemed rather hopeless. Castiel began to think that it was simply time he move on and leave Dean behind.

But then, a miracle happened, from the least likely of places.

As much as Crowley is the bad guy in nearly every story he’s been in, for this one—Castiel has to admit—he wound up the hero. If it weren’t for the demon director, Castiel might not ever have gathered the nerve to speak meaningfully (“restock the roller items” and “the women’s bathroom needs cleaning,” notwithstanding) to Dean again, never mind try to repair their damaged friendship. Thankfully, Crowley’s determination to turn the things _he_ wants to happen into reality wind up serving the best interests of someone besides himself.

For once, Castiel’s glad to be caught in his crosswinds.

Early one warm Thursday morning, those winds blow. As Castiel is on his way to open the Gas-N-Sip, his phone rings in his pocket. _King of Hell,_ the Caller ID says, and Castiel rolls his eyes before swiping a thumb across the screen. He’s had far too little caffeine for this. 

“Crowley,” he deadpans.

“ _Castiel._ ”

There’s a pause. It’s nice to know that after this extended break, Crowley hasn’t lost his flair for the dramatic. “I’m on my way to work,” Castiel prods, even as he slows his pace. His contract is still active, so he knows that he’ll need to hear his director out—like it or not.

“ _I’m the only boss of yours that matters, Feathers.”_ Castiel doesn’t respond, but if the eye-rolling keeps up at this pace, by the time he hangs up, he fully expects to have caught a glimpse of his own brain. “ _Anyway. I’ve found us a venue.”_

 _That_ gets Castiel’s attention, snaps him out of his funk immediately. “One that can accommodate the sets?” After all, that _was_ the major sticking point.

_“With some modifications. I’ve already spoken to Chuck and Mr. Lafitte, they assure me that it can be done."_

Castiel doubts greatly that he’s receiving the entire story or the full picture there—Benny Lafitte, their builder, is one of the most temperamental men Castiel has ever met, and his instant too-easy friendship with Dean doesn’t help his likeability. That’s not the point, though. Benny has already been salty and irritable about Crowley’s extravagant requests and constant changes, as well as having to store the half-built set in perpetuity in his own space. Castiel can’t imagine a world in which Benny is just fine with essentially fitting the entire thing to a brand-new stage.

“Crowley,” Castiel growls warningly.

 _“Fine, fine,”_ Crowley sighs. “ _It’s going to cost. But that’s my problem, not yours, and you can thank your lucky stars for that. All you need to do right now is get in touch with the cast and the crew, tell them their contracts are back on and that rehearsals resume on Monday. Details are in your email. I’ll be in touch.”_

The line goes dead right as Castiel steps foot onto the Gas-N-Sip property, somewhat reeling from the news. The familiar, somewhat sour smell of gasoline wafts through the air as he exchanges his phone for the keys in his pocket and opens up the door. Distracted and lost in thought, it takes Castiel a prolonged second to realize that his key goes in far too easily, the door having already been unlocked. 

“What—” Glancing up, Castiel notices that the lights in the store are on, but no one is visible behind the counter. He steps inside cautiously, unsure whether they’re being burglarized or if someone is just at work when they shouldn’t be. Judging by the fact that the panel alarm is properly disabled, Castiel’s optimistic that it’s the latter, but still. This _is_ Southie—he keeps on high-alert and ready to fight, just in case. 

Creeping around the counter, he peeks behind the register, just in case someone is ducked down there, counting lottery tickets or God knows what else. He’s slept on the floor here before, drunk and afraid of not making it in to his shift otherwise, but to his knowledge, no one else was marked on the schedule to open today. Strangely, there’s a folded blue vest resting on the stool that’s usually tucked beneath the counter and an upside down nametag sitting on top. 

Castiel turns around, only to run smack into Dean rounding the corner out of the small hallway that leads to the stockroom and Elanor’s office. 

“Holy fuck,” Dean yelps, smacking a hand to his chest.

“Jesus f—” Castiel blurts out at the same time, stumbling back to lean against the counter and catch his breath. “Dean, what on earth are you doing here?” 

Dean pulls a hand down over his face. Visibly getting himself together, he takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Not that you actually give a crap, but I’m returning my shit. Quitting. Tried to get in and get out before your shift started, I know you don’t wanna see me. Figured I’d make it easier on both of us and Nora’s sanity and bail. She’s been good to me—I don’t want to cause problems for her, just ‘cause we’re...” He gestures between them and then to the items on the stool, and Castiel’s stomach drops.

“Dean, no,” he starts, as Dean begins to walk away, but Dean doesn’t give any sign that he’s even heard the protest. Knowing what he does about the fate of the show (and maybe a tiny bit relieved to have that opening), Castiel charges forward, grabbing Dean by the sleeve. He _has_ to set this right. 

And if the show is an excuse, and if Castiel _knows_ he’s the asshole here, and if he can’t stand living with himself causing Dean pain for one more second, well—

When Dean turns, there’s a flash of something across his face that looks a hell of a lot like hurt, but it’s quickly hidden behind a mask of anger and petulance. “Fuck off, Cas,” he snaps, yanking his arm away. Just like that, the weight of what Castiel’s done comes down on him hard. Not once in all of his philosophical wandering and his entertainment of his own bullshit did he _really_ think about what _Dean_ might have been going through, what Castiel’s rejection of _him_ might have felt like.

God, he’s an assbutt.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Castiel says quickly, before Dean can get any more upset. Not that he wouldn’t be justified in doing so, but there’s been enough suffering to go around already. “I had...I had no business treating you the way that I did. It was selfish and very unkind. Please,” he adds, looking up at Dean mournfully as his friend’s green eyes seem to dart and land everywhere but on Castiel himself.

“I know that I don’t have the right,” Castiel says softly, withdrawing his hand from where he’s unconsciously reached out again towards Dean. He picks at his own fingers, out of anxiety and a need for distraction—any distraction. “But if you have a moment, perhaps I could explain. If—if you’d let me.” 

Dean hesitates, but he doesn’t storm out, so Castiel persists. “Please,” he repeats. “I don’t want you to quit, and I don’t want you to—to be gone from my life.”

At that, Dean looks up sharply, warily, and Castiel can understand. He eyes the door like he’s still considering bolting, but in the end, Dean licks his lips and motions towards the cash register. “It’s almost six,” he says gruffly. “I assume you can open and talk at the same time?” 

Castiel can’t help but let one side of his mouth tick up in a smile. 

Over the next couple of hours, for the first time in his life, Castiel spills his guts and doesn’t hold anything back. He tells Dean everything about his upbringing—from his cold and often-absent father who expected Castiel to simply fall in line, to his mother who drilled into his head that he was broken, from as far back as he can remember. He talks about the indoctrination of being sent to Catholic school and marched to church every Sunday, of being forced through each sacrament and made to repeat all of the Christian mantras that encompass everything Castiel has had to unlearn since leaving home.

He shares with Dean how he was taught to hate himself, who he knew that he was inside, and how that’s haunted him ever since. How, despite that, it was still hard to separate from his family, from the only identity he’s ever known. How even today, sometimes Castiel questions if doing so was the right thing. Not because he genuinely wonders, but because that’s how deep the conditioning he received seeped into his bones. 

Somewhere around this point in the story, Dean starts looking genuinely concerned, like he didn’t realize Castiel was a headcase who was one stiff breeze away from running back to the deep south and homophobic conservatism. Castiel’s quick to disabuse him of that notion, walking Dean through his entire personal revolution after leaving his parents’ house, including but not limited to tattooing and piercing the majority of his skin.

Of course, that stuff was only the superficial side of change. 

“I had always questioned everything—that was part of what my mother disliked and tried to beat out of me. It bothered me on a level I still can’t express how Catholicism preaches loving your neighbor but does very little for those actually hurting in the world. I continued questioning regardless of my parents’ abuse, so perhaps my subsequent rebellion was an inevitability. Still, once on my own, I had to find my purpose.”

Castiel explains all of this thoughtfully, making change for a customer who came in to purchase a lottery ticket at the same time without missing a beat. “Good day, ma’am, and good luck,” he says, flashing her a thumbs up. The lady looks at him slightly funny, but when Castiel turns to face Dean again—he’s stolen the stool and is crammed aside him in the space behind the counter, as far from Castiel as he can get (which is not very)—Dean’s hiding a smile.

“What?” 

“Nothing, keep going,” Dean replies, covering his mouth with one hand.

Castiel sighs and reaches out to fix the lighter display while he talks. “Purpose,” he repeats. “In an often apparently meaningless and hostile world. For me, that’s what being punk means. It’s not what you wear or how you look, it’s an attitude. Pushing back against what I’ve been taught, the expectation of complacency and apathy. Believing the world can be better than that. I care,” he says simply. “I enjoy creating things, especially live theater. Beyond that, small acts of kindness, such as giving an unhoused person somewhere to go out of the cold for a few hours—” 

He pauses, eyeing Dean pointedly. “Or helping a down on his luck street performer out of a sticky situation—that’s my purpose. If nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do. I just want to help."

From somewhere to his right, Dean takes a sharp breath, but Castiel doesn’t meet his gaze. “It’s just that I’m also a work-in-progress,” he continues. “In my own head. Simply because I understand that the things I was taught are now and were always bullshit, that I was _not_ built with a...a _crack_ in my chassis, as my mother was wont to describe…” He trails off and swallows hard, turning so that Dean can’t see the probable anguish on his face. 

When Castiel is fairly certain his voice won’t crack, he continues. “It all still gets the best of me, sometimes. Until you came along, I’d never—” Deep breath. “I’d never allowed myself to be with a man that way. Never felt inclined to do so, or perhaps I was simply afraid. I know that...a good portion of society _still_ views me and the way I live as strange or inadequate. It’s not always easy to differentiate those thoughts from my own.”

The faux-marble pattern on the cheap, flaking countertop blurs in front of Castiel’s focused stare until he blinks it clear again. “I _did_ want you, Dean. That was never a lie or a misunderstanding. I apologize for allowing my insecurities to take over and to drive you away. I can never apologize enough if I hurt you or made you feel—” He shakes his head, unable to finish that sentence. “I hope—well, I hope that you can forgive me, and that we can go back to being friends. I miss you very much.” 

At that, Castiel forces himself to look up and meet Dean’s eyes. Whatever he thought he might see—irritation, disgust, disappointment—none of that is looking back. On the contrary, Dean looks... _soft._ It’s _almost_ enough to push Castiel over the edge and give him the confidence to ask Dean for more, if he could—

 _No._ Castiel doesn’t deserve that, not after what he did.

“Sure, Cas,” Dean tells him, standing up and holding out his hand. A handshake—not exactly what Castiel was hoping for, but at least Dean isn’t storming out and quitting his job and abandoning the play. _Oh, the play!_ Castiel opens his mouth to deliver Dean the good news, when Dean surprises him by squeezing his hand and yanking him into a hug.

“Oof,” is what comes out of Castiel’s mouth as he’s crushed against Dean’s chest, but it only takes him a second to recalibrate before he’s gripping Dean back. Scant seconds pass before he’s melting, sinking into the warmth of Dean’s body with relief. 

“We’ve all got shit,” Dean says against his ear, prompting Castiel to inhale a ragged,stabilizing breath. “You know the hell my dad put me through, I told you. Cas, neither of us are wrong or broken, alright? Let’s get that straight.” He pauses, waits until Castiel nods against his collarbone, feeling unable to release the death grip he has on Dean’s shoulders. “Friends,” Dean says firmly. “I never wasn’t your friend, you know.” 

When he finally moves away, Castiel’s had enough time to pull himself together...somewhat. “Hey,” he says conversationally, busying himself with straightening the lottery tickets so that he can have plausible deniability about wiping his eyes. “The play is back on.” 

“No shit?” He can almost hear the wide grin spreading across Dean’s face. “New theater?”

“New theater,” Castiel confirms, turning towards him again. It’s even harder this time not to grab Dean and kiss the hell out of him, but something makes Castiel hesitate. Something more than whatever just went down between them—it simply doesn’t feel like the right time. 

“Sam’s going to be psyched,” Dean is saying, already getting out his phone to text. He clears his throat, keeping his eyes on the screen. “You know, he and Jess made up like ten minutes after they had that fight.” 

Castiel’s mouth goes dry, but he forces himself to speak anyway. “It’s almost as if you can fight and still care about each other,” he offers.

Dean looks up, casts him a thoughtful look as he pockets his phone again. “Almost,” he says. There’s a charged moment where they both stare each other down, broken by the bell on the Gas-N-Sip’s door that signals a customer has entered. Dean glances over his shoulder before picking up his previously discarded vest and nametag. He touches the back of Castiel’s hand as he slips past and rounds the counter.

“I'll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols,” Dean says jokingly before cringing and shaking his head, but Castiel laughs. “Catch you later, Cas,” he adds, before walking out the door with a wave.

“You will,” Castiel replies, a moment too late to actually be heard. “You will.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Slow and steady, What You Own, Jem (and everyone) ships it, what _really_ happened up on the roof...


	7. What You Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The ball is unquestionably in Castiel’s court now. If he doesn’t make a move soon, when the show closes he and Dean will likely drift apart and go their separate ways._
> 
> _Which is why, on Christmas Eve, mere hours before Opening Night and on the roof of the theater that’s become their new home, Castiel shoots his shot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Jem cameo ;)

Production for the show ramping up again puts a damper on Castiel’s plans to work on quashing his own issues once and for all. He’s not entirely sure if he can win another chance with Dean—or if he even deserves it—but if he’s going to try, he’s damn well going to be sure that _he_ won’t be the cause of screwing things up again. 

There isn’t a whole lot of time for focusing on personal issues, though, not if they’re going to make this musical happen. Crowley has financing issues that put their deadline for opening night prior to the year ending. If he doesn’t start getting some R.O.I. by then, there won’t be anything he can do to keep the production afloat. 

Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as dumping their old sets into the new venue and tweaking the blocking. The last quarter of the show was never even staged to begin with, and that’s the easiest thing they have to course-correct. The main issue, as Castiel suspected, are the sets that Benny’s company has built alongside Chuck and his crew (and Castiel’s own overarching supervision). They’re elaborate as hell and custom-made, fit precisely for use in their original location. 

_This_ stage has a completely different set-up. The scene dock at the back of the house is smaller but the fly tower is taller, meaning that where they planned for pieces to be pulled _backward,_ now they may have to go _up._ That’s not an easy (or cheap) adjustment to make. Thankfully, Benny’s so happy to finally get all of their crap out of his warehouse, he’s more than willing to accept Castiel’s offer to use the cast and crew as construction hands to cut the cost of labor. 

_That_ means that instead of partying their nights away on the roof of Castiel’s apartment building, the whole team spends their off-time eating pizza and learning to use power tools, hammers, and saws. Dean is surprisingly useful in that department, cementing his easy friendship with Benny over their shared skills (which Castiel has to work _very_ hard not to reveal his piquing jealousy over). 

After all, working together is what they’re _supposed_ to be doing, and Castiel has no business acting possessive when it comes to Dean.

He feels it anyway, though, right or wrong. And seeing Dean night after night, stripped down to a threadbare t-shirt with his flannel tied around his waist, sweaty and _happy_ and busting his ass for the common good— _God._ If Castiel wasn’t sure whether he loved Dean before, whether he wanted him and was attracted to him and couldn’t imagine his life without him—well. Being forced to keep his distance while watching Dean work _so_ hard for everything Castiel holds dear certainly drives those things home rather undeniably.

This second chance with the show gives Castiel a sense of hope and promise, of _completeness_ that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. It’s not just Dean and having him around again, it’s the way Castiel is finally learning to let go of the hurt and pain of his past—of everything that was still tethering him to it and holding him back. Happiness comes from within, from being at peace with oneself, and it feels as if he’s finally figuring that out.

Sometimes he just sits back, takes a quiet moment to drink it all in. 

Tonight, parked in the middle of the stage while painting a sign that will hang above the Cat Scratch Club, Castiel puts down his brush and shifts onto his left hip, giving his knees a break. He glances around, eyes landing first on Sam, who is laughing with Jessica in the second row of audience seating. She has armfuls of costume pieces all sorted onto various chairs, and is doing fittings with one cast member at a time while the rest continue to build the set. 

Crowley’s at the back of the house, working on various lighting and sound cues in the booth with Kevin and Charlie. From the (lack of) volume of their voices, that seems to be going better than might be expected. This theater is fairly state-of-the-art, which has done nothing to rein Crowley and his wild dreams in. Castiel makes a note to check in with Charlie later, help her scale back whatever unrealistic thing Crowley is inevitably demanding she pull off.

At the lip of the stage, Dean’s little boombox sits. It’s currently blasting the mixtape he oh-so-casually gave Castiel earlier in the week, grunting gruffly that it was a “gift” and running away before Castiel could ask any questions. Castiel has to admit, the gesture filled him with insane, mad hope. All the same, he’s restrained himself from reciprocating outright, not wanting to risk even the _remote_ possibility that their relationship could go wrong and in turn, put the show’s fate in jeopardy. 

Pam, Balthazar, and Vic are supposed to be screwing a newly welded piece of scaffolding to its frame, the piece that will lift the whole thing up into the fly tower via the off-stage pulley system. From where Castiel’s sitting, they’re doing a lot more horsing around and teasing than they are building, but they’ve all been working so hard—Castiel doesn’t have the heart to bitch at them. The most he does is put on a stern face and yell a quick warning about what he’s going to do to them if the set collapses underneath someone’s feet. 

Ultimately, he and Benny are going be the ones scouring every finished detail with a fine-toothed comb, so, the risk is minimal. They don’t need to know that, though.

“Loosen up, Cassie,” Balthazar says, waving a piece of pizza blithely in his direction. “Get the stick out of your arse.”

“Hey, that’s my line,” Dean calls from somewhere above them, before Castiel can even open his mouth to respond.

“You’re all on my shit list,” Castiel mutters, but he’s smiling when he looks up, squinting past the hot can lights shining in his eyes to focus on Dean. He’s balanced at the top of the scaffolding, where the exterior of Roger and Mark’s apartment will be. He shifts as he tightens something with a wrench, straddling a pipe with one ankle hooked around the perpendicular pole holding it up. It’s a position that looks entirely too precarious to remotely meet I.A.T.S.E standards, so for once it’s a good thing they’re too subprofessional to qualify. Still, Castiel would like Dean to keep all of his limbs intact and his skull round-shaped, union-requirement or no. 

“We have ladders,” Castiel reminds Dean, standing up and wiping his palms on his jeans. Six feet tall and the top of his head doesn’t even come up to the soles of Dean’s shoes, not by a long shot. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Nervous?” Dean echoes, mocking Castiel with a shocked expression and a hand flying to his chest. “Careful, Cas, might accidentally let on that you like having me around.” He smirks and winks and Castiel huffs, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

“Get down,” Castiel demands, ignoring the way the entire cast and crew have suddenly stopped working to watch whatever it is he and Dean are doing. Even little Jem, sitting just offstage in the shadows of the wings, has stopped scribbling in that ever-present journal and petting the cat that apparently comes with the theater to giggle and peer curiously out at the two of them.

It’s too late to opt out of this tête-à-tête he’s accidentally bumbled into, but Castiel hopes perhaps Dean will take pity on him, on _them_. Unfortunately, this is Dean, and Castiel didn’t factor that in while making his demands. 

“Whatever you say, sunshine,” Dean replies with a grin, releasing his hand-grip on the metal structure and letting himself free-fall backward without a moment’s hesitation.

“Dean!” Castiel gasps, just barely stopping himself from diving forward and then scowling when Dean winds up hanging by his knees from the scaffolding. His upper body swings back and forth gently as his shoulders shake with laughter, and when Castiel walks up to him, they’re basically face-to-face, despite the fact that one of them is upside-down. “You’re incorrigible,” he growls, and then immediately forgets why he was angry when Dean reaches out and cups his face.

The world disappears for a long second, at least until a loud, “Kiss him!” shatters Castiel’s reverie. He’s fairly certain that was Gabriel, but the shout is replicated by several others, including Rowena, her Scottish brogue floating almost delicately up from where she’s running choreo with Meg down in front of the stage.

“Go on, kiss the handsome angel,” she cheers, a vote of encouragement that’s clearly directed at Dean.

In response, Dean grins and winks and Castiel steps away quickly, feeling his face flushing red. As soon as he’s clear, Dean flips off of the scaffolding effortlessly, in a move that does a whole lot of nothing to quell Castiel’s interest in following through on their audience’s suggestions. 

“Hey,” Jem says, reaching up to tug at Castiel’s pants. Jem’s on their knees now, the cat tucked wide-eyed under their arm, yellow-green eyes looking unbelievably perturbed and yet not making any move to escape Jem’s clutches. “Simon thinks you should go for it and also, if you guys get married, can he be in the wedding? He’s dressed for it.” 

Speechless, Castiel just blinks down at the tuxedo-patterned cat and nods helplessly before bravely running away from the scary seven-year-old. He can’t go far, though, since Dean is in his way, bent over and stretching out his shoulders after his little display.

“Hey,” Dean says brightly once he’s upright, running a hand through his unkempt hair. He steps unabashedly close to Castiel, who has abruptly forgotten how to do his job or even how to make words. Dean’s eyes flicker down to Castiel’s lips, but he doesn’t make a move. He just stands there smiling—kind of goofy-looking, honestly, but he’s no less attractive for it. Very unfair, in Castiel’s opinion.

“Alright, pack it in for the night,” Crowley hollers from the back of the House. “I’m going home to drink and pass out, you lot should too.” In true Crowley fashion, he’s out the door before anyone can so much as suggest that he help clean up, but Castiel ensures no one else tries to do the same. After all, they’re not the only ones using this space right now, and they could lose it (again) if they aren’t considerate. 

By the time Castiel turns back to Dean from where his attention was stolen away, Dean’s moving on, picking up tools and equipment and carting it all over to the storage spot just offstage. Still flustered—more so for the way Jem is shaking their head in disapproval—Castiel does his best to look like he’s not. He hurries about his business, making a show of meticulously cleaning up the paint, all the while knowing _full well_ that everyone is snickering and joking around behind his back. 

On the positive side, he and Dean walk home together that night for the first time since their falling out. They part as friends, making a plan to walk together to the Gas-N-Sip the next morning. The following evening after work, they grab dinner at the bar before heading to rehearsal together, too. Just like that, they step back into each other’s lives easily. It’s as if no time has passed, like nothing ever changed, _just like that_. 

_This_ time, Castiel appreciates the opportunity for what it is. This time, he vows that he’s going to appreciate every single second. 

Weeks go by and things remain the same, but not in a static way. Making money and prepping for the show gearing up to open ensures that everyone stays busy, Castiel and Dean included. The two of them fall back into that initial rhythm they found early on in their relationship: work, rehearse, eat, sleep, more rehearsal. Castiel gets used to having “What You Own” in his ears twenty-four-seven, but it barely bothers him, because that means Dean is nearby. 

If he privately believes that’s where Dean should always, always be, that’s his business and his alone.

The weather turns, becoming chilly once again, and their opening date is set in stone. Christmas Eve, almost one full year after all of this started. 

Castiel finds himself increasingly anxious, knowing that the show opening and subsequently _finishing_ is more than one kind of obvious deadline in his life. He’s been standing at the edge of the diving board for what feels like forever now, and it’s very clearly time to either dive in or step aside.

Dean’s expecting something, Castiel can feel it. It’s in the way he lingers at Castiel’s side while they prepare the coffee station at the Gas-N-Sip in the mornings. The way he steps into Castiel’s space like he’s welcome, like he knows Castiel wants him there. It’s in the way Castiel constantly catches Dean staring, his expression soft and hopeful, when there are a thousand other things Dean could or should be paying attention to. 

The ball is unquestionably in Castiel’s court now. If he doesn’t make a move soon, when the show closes he and Dean will likely drift apart and go their separate ways.

Which is why, on Christmas Eve, mere hours before Opening Night and on the roof of the theater that’s become their new home, Castiel shoots his shot. 

***

_Opening Night_

_Mid-Performance, Backstage_

Sam, surprisingly, brings up what happened on the roof. It catches Castiel off guard, simply because Sam shouldn’t _know._ At least, not yet. That’ll teach Castiel to ever underestimate the power of the theater rumor mill again. 

As Castiel slips through the exit from the stage to the dressing room hallway, Sam catches his sleeve. It startles Castiel enough that he almost allows the door to slam shut in his wake, but he catches it in time. 

“Did you really mean what you said to Dean?”

Castiel’s jaw drops open. “Excuse—Sam— _how? ”_

Sam just looks down at him expectantly and Castiel balks, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s not entirely sure whether to be more shocked or more embarrassed. As soon as he gets ahold of himself, he grabs Sam by the arm and tugs him down the hallway, away from the dressing areas (and _people)_ and into the boiler room.

“Is this necessary?” Sam asks, trotting obediently along behind him regardless. He looks faintly amused as Castiel closes the door behind them and leans against it, as if barring the doorway will prevent the rumors from leaking out. A few feet to Sam’s left, the boiler hisses and grumbles. “Sorry if I overstepped, I just—I heard about what happened between you two.”

“ _How?”_ Castiel asks, still incredulous. “That was—” He checks his watch. “Not even three hours ago! We were _alone!”_

“Gossip travels fast in this community,” Sam replies with a levity Castiel resents. He knows that, of course he does (better than _Sam, what the fuck?)_ , but when there’s hot gossip or other stories and scandals flying, they usually have _nothing_ whatsoever to do with him. Castiel is _boring,_ and he quite likes it that way _._ Being on the other end of a rumor is...disconcerting. 

Sam leans against the cinderblock wall and folds his arms across his chest. “Relax,” he says. “I’m just looking out for Dean.”

Somewhat guiltily, Castiel lifts his gaze from the floor to lock eyes with him, nodding solemnly. “I understand.”

“So, you plan on following through this time, or are you going to pull another Roger?”

“Pull another—I resent that, Sam.”

Sam just shrugs, loosens up his stance, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “We all make our own beds, Cas. It’s not like you and I are down here avoiding watching “Goodbye, Love,” because we’ve made awesome life choices that don’t fill us with guilt and regret.”

“Touché,” Castiel mutters, tipping his head to the side to listen as Chuck calls a series of cues that are particularly complicated. He nails them without issue, though, and Castiel focuses back on Sam. “To your point, _yes,_ ” he says emphatically. “I meant what I said. I’m all in this time, with Dean. I promise you that.” 

Sam chews on his lip, nodding while looking at the floor, drawing some kind of pattern with his foot in the dirty cement. “Okay,” he says finally. “You know, I’m not much for the threats and violence, that’s always been more Dean’s M.O. when he wants something. On the other hand, it’s my duty as Dean’s only remaining family to tell you that if you’re lying, I’ll be legally obligated to mess you up.” 

Biting back a smile, Castile holds up three fingers. “Scouts’ honor,” he says solemnly.

“You were a scout?”

“Definitely not.” 

They both laugh quietly, but then there’s a moment of silence between them where Castiel mimics Sam by scuffing the toe of his Converse on the floor. In truth, he’s somewhat ashamed that his behavior has come to this. Being threatened by his not-boyfriend’s younger brother, who has his own shit together exactly not at all. That seems about on target for how his life is going.

The silence is broken by Sam. “Think we’re safe yet?”

“Hmm?” Castiel asks distractedly.

“The play,” Sam clarifies. “Is the song over, are they onto “Halloween” yet?” 

“They’re in the middle of it, Castiel replies with a smile. “We are safe.”

On their way out of the boiler room, Sam claps Castiel on the shoulder and squeezes. “It’s hard to change,” he says sincerely. “Even harder to admit that you need to out loud. I think what you did was brave, admirable, and I hope—I hope it all works out. Take care of Dean. He deserves it.” At that, Sam takes off down the hallway, heading towards the stage door without so much as a backward glance. Undoubtedly, he’s hoping to watch his brother kill the end of the show, but Castiel can’t let him go like that.

“Sam,” he calls after him, waiting until Sam glances over his shoulder to continue. “You’re not Dean’s only family anymore. For what it’s worth, he’s not yours, either.” 

The smile he gets in return is perhaps the most genuine he’s ever seen from Sam. The stage door opens with Dean’s voice filtering out briefly, and then Castiel’s left alone in the middle of the hall, swallowing roughly past the lump in his throat. 

Whether or not Sam should have been privy to their private conversation on the roof, he _is_ right. But what he said up there to Dean? It was the hardest ( _and the easiest)_ thing he’s ever done, and he has to believe that it wasn’t for nothing. Castiel can only hope now that it was worth it.

***

_Three Hours Earlier_

_The New England air is so bitter it almost isn’t worth tolerating, rising anxiety or no. Castiel stares out over the edge of the roof, into grey skies and softly falling snowflakes that aren’t nearly sticky or dense enough to threaten the roads (or their incoming crowd). His newly refreshed and haphazardly gelled blue hair tips ruffle in the icy breeze. The city below is bustling in typical Christmas Eve fashion—frantic shoppers dashing in and out of shops looking for last minute presents, drunks spilling out of bars, and a line for the liquor store that stretches halfway down the block._

Dean comes bursting through the access door to the roof in a flurry of flannel and sparking energy, flying high on adrenaline and excitement over the impending Opening Night performance. He’s smiling widely and hyper enough that he nearly forgets to shove the metal chair that serves as a doorstop back into place, thereby locking them out.

At the very last second, Dean turns and kicks the chair back where it came from while Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. He manages to bite back the gasp and word of criticism threatening to roll off of his tongue, but just barely, and only because of why they’re up here to begin with. While being stuck on the roof of the theater is the last thing either of them needs right now, Castiel is simply remiss to ruin the mood. 

In general, but especially _Dean’s_ , considering what he’s about to do.

“Dean,” Castiel says with relief. “Thank you for coming.”

“Sure, Cas,” Dean replies, quirking an eyebrow in question as he approaches, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets. When Castiel holds out the joint, Dean doesn’t refuse, though his hit isn’t as deep as it would usually be. He blows out the smoke more quickly too, before handing it back. Voice to protect, and all. “What, uh—” He clears his throat, suppressing a cough. “What’s so important and secret you couldn’t tell me downstairs where the heat lives?”

“You’re tough, you can handle a little cold,” Castiel teases, bumping his arm against Dean’s and smiling. Outwardly, he’s maintaining the illusion of calm, but inside, he’s a wreck.

Castiel tries to focus, tries to gather his wits and his courage, to zero in on the _importance_ of getting this all out in the open now. He’s made mistakes. He’s hurt Dean, pushed him away. After everything they’ve been through, there’s no chance in hell that Castiel is going to let this show come to an end without making it _crystal_ clear to the man exactly how he feels. How strongly he hopes this _won’t_ be the end for them, but a beginning. 

He takes a deep breath. He’s ready. It’s time.

“Dean,” Castiel begins, breath forming misty clouds in the scant space between them. “I always wondered, ever since leaving my family and working to unlearn everything I was brought up to believe, what—what being truly happy could even look like. I never found an answer. Before you came along, I just—I couldn’t picture letting myself _have_ it. It was one thing to love myself in theory, another to carry that over in practice. But I think I know—I think I know now.” He looks up, meeting Dean’s eyes. “Happiness isn't in the having. It's in just being. It's in just saying it.”

Dean makes a face, squinting at him sideways, clearly confused. “What are you talking about, man?” 

Castiel smiles, blinking back the tears that are welling up in his eyes. He wasn’t _intending_ to become overly emotional with this, but these feelings—they’re _big._ He steps forward, touching Dean’s arm.

“I know—I know how you see yourself, Dean. And everyone who knows you sees it, too. You’re _brave,_ selfless. Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love. You raised your little brother for love. You fought for Sam, for this show and this community for love. You trusted me, forgave me when I hurt you. That is who you are. You're the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know. Dean, ever since we met, knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I _changed_. I learned to care about you, to let you in. You changed me, Dean. Made me better, braver, and I finally—I _get it_ now.”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean breathes out when Castiel pauses. He’s looking a little red in the cheeks and like he’s considering turning on his heel and bolting. Apparently, it’s only his concern that Castiel is about to do the same keeping him around because worriedly, he asks, “Why does this sound like a goodbye?”

“It’s not,” Castiel reassures him quickly, stepping forward to take his hand. “Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s—it’s a promise.” He takes a deep breath. “I love you, Dean.” Before Dean can react, Castiel holds up a hand. “I don’t expect you to say it back, or to say anything at all. I understand that this is a lot to process. But I couldn’t let us go into this ‘big finale’ of our lives, so to speak, with any—um, ambiguity. I just...I just wanted—no, _needed_ you to know. The rest we can work out later. If—if that’s something you want, of course.” 

In the ensuing seconds that have Castiel holding his breath in anticipation—and also reconfirming that he’s right about Dean changing him, because Dean’s next actions have him wholeheartedly believing in a benevolent God once again—Dean steps forward, into his space.

“Later,” Dean says, his warm breath welcome on Castiel’s chilled cheeks in the sharp winter air. “Took us long enough to get here, we can wait a little longer. We deserve that—to have the focus all on you and me, not the show, for once.”

“No day but today,” Castiel replies cheekily, the front of Dean’s Roger-flannel (straight out of Dean’s own closet) somehow winding up fisted in his hand. His heart pounds away in his chest, but this is the furthest thing from a rejection. It’s a promise, equal in meaning to Castiel’s, without Dean having to say much of anything at all.

Biting his lip, Dean steps back, straightening Roger’s (also Dean’s) leather jacket, and shaking his finger in Castiel’s direction. All that before turning on his heel and heading for the door that leads back inside the theater. “Easy, sunshine. It’ll still be today tonight,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Castiel watches him go, staring longingly after Dean’s retreating form for such a prolonged moment that the cherry of the joint he came up here to hit goes out in his hand. 

_No day but today._

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Christmas is coming, The Big Finale...or is it? And will Dean ever get a chance to respond to Cas' confession?! 
> 
> (spoiler: he will, because this is not the show)


	8. No Day But Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes, Castiel envies the surety she has of her place in the world and how she moves through it._   
>  _He’s on his way, though. If he has faith and trusts in his own ability to love, Castiel thinks he can be just as lucky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split this last chapter into two, for reasons you'll understand if you know RENT and look at the titles.
> 
> If you've never seen RENT or know anything about it, again, you'll be able to read this without issue. However, i _strongly_ recommend watching just this clip from the end of the movie, because it'll give you some context and atmosphere: [Click here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g62Xy9tw5bs) The whole bit about the audience and the crew singing along is definitely a real thing.
> 
> StardustJo appears in this chapter, alongside her bird Blu!

It takes every ounce of Castiel’s strength not to melt into an actual puddle. Watching Dean-as-Roger serenade a dying Mimi, essentially singing her back to life—it’s a _lot_. At this point in his life, Castiel has at least stopped pretending that he isn’t actively inserting himself into Pam’s position—in his own mind, anyway. It’s all he can do not to get lost in the scene, to remember that he has a job to do, and to do it. 

It helps when Pam is revived—bolting out of Dean’s lap, shaking Meg’s hand off of her shoulder, and launching them all into the very last leg of the show. Right along with her, Castiel is jolted back to the present and what he’s supposed to be focusing on.

_"T_ _here’s only us, there’s only this. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss.”_

Fortunately, the set changes going into the big, final number are almost nothing, and Castiel’s team carries them off without a hitch. On top of that, the ensemble is ready and waiting in the wings (no cues needed) to flood the scaffolding and boost the main cast’s voices. It’s quite the sight.

Already feeling emotional, Castiel calls the cue to play “Mark’s film” on the screen that drops down behind Dean, Pam, Meg, Billie, and Victor right as Gabriel finishes setting up the prop projector onstage. The timing is perfect. As the film plays, shots of the cast over the past year flicker across the screen—some staged and some candid—and Castiel doesn’t miss the there-and-gone flash of him and Dean hiding in the montage. They’re both paint-splattered and smiling stupidly at each other, and suddenly, Castiel doesn’t need to hear Dean’s answer to know that he’s in love, too.  
  
“ _I can't control, my destiny._

_I trust my soul, my only goal is just to be.”_

The entire crew fills the empty spaces in the wings on both sides of the stage—all of them, save for Charlie and Kevin who are in the tech box at the back of the house. Castiel finds Sam and Jess standing hand-in-hand next to him, Chuck in the wing straight across, Garth jumping down from where he was rigging the projector from above. 

_“Without you, the hand gropes. The ear hears, the pulse beats.”_

_Everyone_ sings. 

“ _Life goes on, but I’m gone, ‘cause I die...without you.”_

It’s pretty impossible to resist joining in, and from where he’s standing, Castiel can see a good chunk of the audience singing, too.

The first time Castiel saw _RENT_ on Broadway, he stood in line for hours to get the cheap seats they reserve exclusively for will-call, right in the front two rows. Those rows _always_ stand and sing during the finale, and that inclusive, family-style moment is what made him _sure_ that live theater was his calling. It’s hard to believe how far he’s come since then.

He jumps in now, singing the men’s harmony and catching Dean’s eye, smiling widely when he winks. 

_“There's only now, there's only here._

_Give in to love, or live in fear.”_

There’s no better sensation Castiel can dream of than realizing that they’ve managed to carry that sense of family and community here, to their own little production, both on and off the stage. 

_“No other path, no other way, no day but today.”_

The last light changes and sound cues go off without him needing to call the shots, just like he knew they would. 

_“No day but today...”_

Dean’s eyes are locked on his, and Castiel should look away, but he can’t.

_“No day but today.”_

“Fadeout sound, blackout main stage lights,” Castiel says into his headset, and the set goes dark as the crowd erupts into furious applause. Half of them are already on their feet and the rest shoot to standing as the final instrumental notes disappear beneath the roar of cheering and clapping. Castiel wipes his eyes on his sleeve—glad that no one is looking his way right now—before joining in. The cast takes group and individual bows, and while Castiel generally tries not to play favorites, he does cheer just a _little_ bit louder when Pam and Dean step forward, hands clasped and raised high in the air. 

The curtain closes with the cast waving goodbye from behind it, long before the applause peters out into an energized buzz of post-show chatting from the audience.

The following sequence of events happens so quickly, no one has even a second to react. One minute the cast is exchanging hugs and congratulations and Dean is headed Castiel’s way—all smiles and hope in his eyes—the next, there’s a murmur of alarm accompanied by Sam shouting, “Call 911!” 

Castiel tears his eyes away from Dean to where the cast and crew are swarming around something collapsed on the floor in the wings of stage left. Using his authority (and his elbows), Castiel fights his way through to find Sam on his knees, cradling an unresponsive Jess in his arms. 

Jumping into action, Castiel feels for her pulse and _thankfully_ finds it strong and steady (if somewhat fast) in her wrist. He can see the rise and fall of her chest as he counts the beats against his fingers, which at the very least, allows him to breathe a sigh of relief and to reassure Sam.

“One second she was fine and the next—” Sam is saying, shaking his head in confusion. “She didn’t eat much today, she was nauseous earlier, and I kept telling her—I _told_ her she had to eat, and she—” Sam breaks off, visibly distraught, just as Meg comes to crouch by his side.

“The ambulance is on its way,” she reassures him, rubbing Sam’s shoulder. “I got buddies that work the station down the street, shouldn’t be more than three, five minutes max. You wanna carry her outside? Meet them at the loading dock? I told dispatch to send them around to the back, avoid the crowd.” 

Sam glances up and meets Castiel’s eyes—he’s clearly panicking and unable to think clearly enough to make any decisions. “Dean,” Castiel says quietly, touching Dean’s elbow where he’s down on one knee next to him. Dean’s brow is furrowed and he looks nearly as lost as he did when it was Sam unconscious on the ground. Jess still hasn’t stirred. “You should go with your brother,” Castiel prompts. “He needs you.”

Just like that, Dean snaps back to reality. “Right,” he says, scratching his stubble. “Cas, my stuff is in the dressing room, you wanna grab it? Sammy, lemme take her, come on. Come on, I got her.” Dean coaxes Sam to hand Jess over, and reluctantly, he does. Only when Dean’s getting to his feet and Sam’s fingers drop from Jess’ limp arm does Castiel notice that he’s shaking badly.

 _Poor Sam,_ Castiel thinks. _He’s been through so much._ This has to be a huge stressor, but as far as Castiel can tell, Jess seems to have simply passed out. She’s definitely alive and the hospital will surely be able to help figure out what happened. 

Once Dean is steady and on his way towards the loading dock behind the stage (Sam plastered to his side), Castiel takes off for the dressing rooms. Dean shares a small semi-private space with Gabriel at the far end of the hall, and he books it down there as fast as he can. He finds Dean’s bag easily, stuffing his street clothes and personal items inside. His wallet, his keys, even his phone are all unsurprisingly left behind, since Dean wouldn’t have any need for those things during the show. 

The cast is filtering out into the backstage area now, and Castiel has to deal with moving against the grain. He grumbles and complains, but it’s not as if the cast and crew are hindering his passage on purpose. There’s only so much space in that access stairwell, so apologetic as everyone is for blocking his way, it’s simply slow going.

By the time Castiel makes it to the loading dock, the ambulance is pulling away in a blur of red lights bouncing off the tall brick buildings lining either side of the alley. Meg and Gabe are the only ones left behind, standing on the loading dock and watching the truck leave. As soon as they reach the street, the EMT driving turns the sirens on, and then they’re gone. 

Dean’s bag drops from Castiel’s shoulder to the crook of his elbow as Meg takes a long drag on her cigarette. She blows the smoke calmly into the freezing night air while Gabriel stares at her like she’s nuts. “Doesn’t your throat hurt enough already?” he asks, and she shrugs.

“We all have our vices. Don’t pretend you’re not going to drink a giant milkshake at the cast party, like milk isn’t just as bad as smoke on your vocal cords.” 

“We’re still having the cast party?” Castiel ventures, fixing the strap of Dean’s bag, pulling it up over his head so that it can’t fall again. 

“Sure,” Meg replies. “Opening night, Clarence. Only happens once, gotta celebrate.” 

It’s quiet outside, the alley blocking out much of the usual hum of the city, and they’re all still staring vaguely after the space where the ambulance disappeared. Despite Meg’s confidence, Castiel bets that his friends are feeling about as uncomfortable as he is regarding celebrating anything after that. On the other hand, Meg isn’t exactly wrong, either, and there’s nothing any of them can do for Jess right now. 

“C’mon,” Meg says, stubbing out her smoke with the toe of Maureen’s black motorcycle boots. She slings an arm around his shoulder and squeezes. “We’ll do it all over again once your boy toy and his brother and Jess are up for it. Kay? Lemme change and I’ll buy you a shot.” 

“Better make it three,” Castiel mutters, but he allows himself be led back inside. He still has tons of clean-up and resetting to do before he can go anywhere, but with any luck, Chuck has gotten a head start on it all. _Thank God for Chuck._

“I like shots,” Gabriel pipes up from behind them, as he slides the barn-style doors shut and flips the padlock. “Who’s going to buy me a shot?”

“Buy your own shots,” Meg calls out. “Clarence was gonna get himself laid tonight, he deserves a consolation prize.”

“ _I_ _'m_ not getting laid tonight either,” Gabriel complains, catching up to them as they make it to stage right, passing behind the rear curtain to do so. 

Castiel flat-out ignores his roommate, groaning before questioning Meg warily, “Does absolutely everyone know about what I told Dean on the roof?” 

“No,” Meg assures him. “But now we know there’s something to know, so you can regale us all with the whole story at the bar.” She winks and flounces away, leaving Gabriel smirking and shaking a finger at a stunned Castiel.

“I should know better by now,” he grumbles, hands dropping helplessly to his sides.

“Look on the bright side,” Gabriel says, patting his shoulder comfortingly. “It’s _really_ entertaining for me that you don’t.”

***

Castiel is one of the last people to leave the theater. He sends the remainder of the cast and crew on ahead, preferring to finish prop and costume inventory on his own. With Jess out of the picture, it’d be all-too-easy for a crucial shirt or jacket or someone’s left shoe to go missing, and Castiel is not going to have that on his shoulders.

It being Christmas Day tomorrow, there’s no performance, but there’s a matinee and a subsequent evening show happening on Sunday. The extra few moments Castiel takes to run through his post-show checklist and put everything away properly accounted for will be worth it to have a peaceful day in between. 

Well, Castiel _hopes_ it’ll be the peaceful, cozy day he’s imagining—with any luck, Jess was simply dehydrated and hungry and will be home by dawn. Sam can spend Christmas tending to her every need while she’s wrapped in a comforter on the couch, and Castiel can give Dean the newspaper-wrapped bottle of Macallan he saved for months to get. 

The whole scene has a sort of rosy glow in Castiel’s imagination. It’s complete with Gabriel singing off-tune over a half-based stolen turkey in their kitchen while he and Dean sprawl lazily beneath their scrawny-looking Christmas tree. The thing has barely any needles and dollar store colored lights, but Dean helped Castiel carry it home from the parking lot sale Boston Fire did about a month ago. Despite coming from the “markdown” (read: trash) section, Castiel’s fairly certain he’s never had a better tree. 

He’s smiling to himself, hurrying through the empty theater as he pulls on his gloves and scarf, blue hair already tucked beneath a knit beanie he made last winter. Lost in thought, Castiel flips the lights in the lobby off without really looking around, surprised nearly into a heart attack when someone yelps—and what sounds like a _bird_ chirps—in protest from somewhere in the dark. 

Realization dawns as Castiel flips one of the less-harsh overheads back on, squinting over in the direction of the ticketing booth expectantly. “Jordan? Is that you?” 

Behind the glass sits a pale-skinned, ultra-curly-haired woman. The last time Castiel saw her, that wild hair was blonde. Today, it’s a bright pink, tendrils poking out from beneath an equally colorful hat. She’s dressed for the weather, like she should be headed out the door any minute, but she looks to be in no rush. Seated at the ticketing counter, she’s happily picking through what appears to be the remnants of one of Jem’s food baskets.

Most remarkable of all though, is the small, fluffy white bird that perches on her shoulder, as if that is a perfectly normal thing one might see during a night at the theater.

“Hey,” Jordan replies mildly, waving even as she stuffs half of one of Castiel’s homemade corn muffins in her mouth. “ _So_ good,” she continues, doing a little dance in appreciation. “Thank you.” 

Castiel feigns ignorance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies, stepping closer and leaning an arm on the counter while he fishes in his jacket. On the other side of the glass, Jordan’s bird is laser-focused on what she’s eating, pecking for crumbs and then acting petulantly uninterested when Jordan actually offers some up. 

_“Chirp."_

“Right. Sure you don’t, Cas,” Jordan replies, rolling her eyes. “Well, thank you for the gig, anyway.” 

“Of course,” Castiel replies smoothly, materializing a couple of bird treats from his pocket. He’d hoped to run into Jordan here. “And for Blu,” he adds, sliding the treats through the dip in the counter meant to exchange tickets and payment. Blu chirps happily as she gobbles the unexpected surprise and Jordan smiles, eyes soft. 

“Benny’s paying some of us to dismantle and move the sets when we’re done,” Jordan continues conversationally, raising an eyebrow at Castiel once she’s done cooing over Blu. “Suppose you didn’t have anything to do with that, either.” 

Biting back a smile, Castiel changes the subject. “Do you have any plans for tonight? Somewhere warm to sleep? The crew is down at the pub by my apartment, and we have plenty of couch space. It’s Christmas,” he adds, knowing that won’t do anything to budge Jordan’s pride.

As usual, she blows him off easily, and while he worries, all Castiel can see is someone who is confident and proud of who they are. Who has no regrets about her choices and the way she lives her life. “Nah,” she says, finishing off the cornbread and brushing her fingerless-gloved hands together. “Painting a new panel on the Mystic Mural tonight. Planning for some new protests next week. Gonna be a whole party. Besides, someone’s gotta show up for the kids that hang at the tent city down there. Some of them don’t have anyplace else to go.” 

“Noted,” Castiel says with an understanding nod. “If you need anything, you know where I live.” 

“Dangerous invitation,” Jordan teases as Castiel laughs and slings his scarf over his shoulder.

“Turn the lights off when you and Blu are done. The door will lock behind you.” 

This is technically dangerous territory—leaving a homeless woman inside a theater that isn’t his to share, but Castiel would tell anyone who questioned him to pound sand. If Jordan wanted to screw him over, she’s certainly had the opportunity before now. Many times over, in fact. Part artist, part activist, Castiel’s known her (and Blu) for years, and always tried to give her opportunities to get off the street. She always takes the odd jobs he offers, the chance to spend time out of the cold and to grab a meal, but beyond that, Jordan seems perfectly content to go on the way she is.

Sometimes, Castiel envies the surety she has of her place in the world and how she moves through it.

He’s on his way, though. If he has faith and trusts in his own ability to love, Castiel thinks he can be just as lucky. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the Dean reciprocation we deserved.


	9. Finale B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I love you,” Castiel tells him, hand dropping to the middle of Dean’s chest. “I’ll never get tired of having you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for explicit content ahead :)

The gathering at the bar is like every other cast party Castiel’s ever been to in his life. That’s not saying much, considering he’s lost count of the actual number those parties amount to. Between productions he’s been a part of himself and the way all of his close friends are in the business and constantly inviting him to their own openings (and closings, and previews…), it’s only natural that the novelty would wear off sooner rather than later. 

It’s always a similar scene. Some local bar or pub or restaurant, never private or rented out for the occasion—because who can afford that—packed wall-to-wall and overflowing out onto the street. Between the regular patrons and those there to celebrate whatever show, it’s not unusual for a fire marshal to have to show up and enforce capacity, which is usually more hilarious than party-dampening. 

Tonight, Castiel finds himself almost wishing that would happen. He’d gladly take the out and the opportunity to escort a drunken (and increasingly loud) Gabriel home. It’s not that Castiel isn’t proud of what they’ve all accomplished together, or of his incredible cast and crew—quite the opposite. It’s just that he’s worried about Dean, worried about Sam and Jess, and with Dean’s phone tucked away next to him in his bag, there’s no chance of even being reassured that everything is fine. 

Sam certainly isn’t answering—Castiel’s tried—and Jess’ phone goes right to voicemail. Probably dead or still turned off from the performance. Out of desperation, Castiel even stepped outside the bar—rounding the corner into an alley away from the smokers and noise—to place a call to the emergency department of the hospital the paramedics told Meg they were headed to. Of course, the nurses wouldn’t tell him anything over the phone, and Castiel found himself back at square one.

Without many other options, he’d retreated to the corner of the bar, slumping dejectedly over a high-top table and nursing a glass of inexpensive whiskey in a questionable tumbler. Thankfully, the cast had chosen the closest dive up the street from his and Gabriel’s building, so at the very least, Castiel won’t have far to drag himself home.

_ Perhaps,  _ he dares to hope,  _ Dean will find his way here when they’re done.  _

A couple of hours pass and Dean doesn’t show. All of Castiel’s friends stop by his table, chatting and making him laugh, and he does his very best not to be a wet towel draped over everyone else’s joy. 

“It’s Christmas,” Meg declared at one point, exasperation at his insistence on moping hidden not even a little bit. Determined, she did her best to pull him out of his chair and over to a make-shift dance floor created by a few pushed-aside tables. “You can’t be miserable on Christmas, Clarence, even you aren’t that cliché.”

“I can and I will,” Castiel replied flatly. Swigging deeply from his glass, he refused to budge, lifting his eyebrows in challenge at her over the rim. 

Rolling her eyes, Meg threw her hands up and wandered off to find a more willing pole to grind on. “ _ So  _ much more fun before you were lovesick,” she grumbled as she went, but the departing pinch to Castiel’s asscheek let him know she wasn’t actually that salty. He smirked, but certainly didn’t take the bait on proving her wrong.

Now, swirling a red stirrer into his melting-ice-flavored-whiskey, Castiel sighs and considers that perhaps she was right. He watches somewhat longingly as Meg, Pam, and Billie grind together on the tiny dance floor, all three of them cheering loudly as a Balthazar that’s inexplicably still dressed in Santa-drag (minus the wig) squeezes in between them. Castiel smiles at the sight, but still doesn’t move to join in. 

All of a sudden, his attention is stolen by a faint commotion over by the bar. A familiar figure rises unsteadily over the rest of the crowd as he stands up on the bartop (and nearly falls directly off again). 

“Attention, please,” Gabriel slurs, stumbling slightly and nearly losing his balance as he spreads his arms wide. Being who he is, Gabe simply grins and slaps a hand over his chest, probably indicating that he’s feeling emotion (because Gabriel) and uses one of the lights hanging from the ceiling to stabilize himself. The crowd generally ignores him and the bartender swats at his legs with a dishtowel, but Gabriel continues on like he’s still in the middle of a stage.

“Attention, everyone! I...am in  _ love, _ ” he declares, swaying and finally losing his balance as Castiel sucks in a breath and darts out of his seat. The crowd is too thick for him to get there in time, and Gabriel goes crashing towards the ground with a truncated, “ _ Oop—”  _

As Castiel’s heart stutters in his chest, Victor appears out of nowhere to catch him like a baby, dumping Gabe onto the sticky floor nearly the second he’s broken the fall. “Dumbass,” Victor says, kicking Gabriel in the shoulder as he rolls over. 

Out of breath, Castiel arrives at Victor’s side in time to offer his idiotic (and still-grinning) roommate a hand up. “Take his ass home before we have to shut down the whole show due to Mark having a head injury,” Victor says, glaring down at Gabe. “From my fist.” 

“You love me, Vic,” Gabriel replies jovially, slinging an arm around Victor’s neck and pressing a sloppy kiss to the side of his face. “Vic, Victor,  _ baaaybee!”  _ The smile drops off of his face and he suddenly turning very serious, moving to grip Victor’s shoulders, one in each hand. “Friends call you Collins. Tom Collins.” He flicks Victor’s goatee. “Nice teeeee! Hey,” he yells abruptly, whirling around and waving a hand above his head. “Bartender! Tom Collins’ all around! On me!” 

“Absolutely not!” Castiel calls out, yanking Gabriel’s hand down from mid-air. He frantically shakes his head “no” at the bartender, who responds with an expression that can only be described as, “duh.” The bartender draws two fingers across his throat and Castiel nods in understanding.

“Vic is right,” he tells Gabriel, who has pulled a sugar-free lollipop from seemingly nowhere and is sucking on it with glee. “Let’s get you something to eat, some insulin, and to bed. You can declare your undying love for Kali to the street on the way home.” 

Gabriel pokes him in the chest and looks for a protracted moment as if he’s going to argue, but eventually he sighs and shrugs. “ _ You— _ ” he starts, and then pauses, sucker nearly slipping from his mouth as he thinks. “You are way more fun when your sexy man-toy is around.” 

“That man-toy is one of your best friends,” Castiel replies mildly, waving goodbye and Merry Christmas to Victor as he navigates Gabriel back to his table. After grabbing Dean’s bag, they make obligatory rounds quickly. Kissing and hugging and wishing everyone a happy holiday, they make sure to let everyone know that their door is always open if anyone needs a place to go. 

“Give Dean and Sam our best,” is a popular sentiment from nearly everyone, which Castiel tries and fails to chalk up to them all simply living in the same building. 

Out on the street, the biting wind in his face seems to give Gabriel a second wind, and he sings Christmas carols at the top of his lungs all the way home. That wouldn’t be as tragic as it is if he wasn’t  _ also _ relying heavily on Castiel’s strength to keep him upright. By the second verse of “Little Drummer Boy,” Castiel’s entirely ready to pop his own left eardrum and save himself the misery.

It’s not exactly the romantic Christmas Eve he was hoping for, that’s for sure. An intoxicated Gabriel trying his best to dislocate Castiel’s shoulder, matching set of frozen nose and ears threatening to crack off of his face, and not  _ nearly  _ enough alcohol in his bloodstream to make up for Dean’s unplanned absence. Not to mention, the entire situation with Jess and Sam, which is incredibly distressing and has left him feeling quite useless. Not just useless, but hapless— _ ineffectual _ —the worst states of being on the planet, as far as Castiel is concerned.

Hauling Gabriel safely up the stairs, feeding, medicating, and tucking him into bed all have the advantage of making Castiel feel  _ slightly  _ less those things, but only temporarily. Within minutes, Gabriel is snoring, and Castiel is left to his own devices yet again. If there’s one positive thing about tonight, though, it’s that the building’s heat is on and working for once.

Perhaps a little  _ too  _ well, even. “It’s a Christmas miracle,” Castiel mutters to himself, sticking his cold face over the radiator next to Gabriel’s bed. His exposed skin warms up quickly, the superheated air becoming uncomfortable more quickly than he might have expected.

Because he knows Gabriel will complain and overcompensate if given half the chance, Castiel preemptively cracks the window above his roommate’s head and then the one that leads out onto the fire escape. A surprising turn of events indeed, but it’s truly that warm inside their apartment. He’s about to kick off his boots and strip down, enjoy the apparent subtropical weather their landlord has graced them with this Christmas Eve, when the sound of singing drifts in from outside. 

_ Singing? At this hour? _

Down on the street, if Castiel isn’t mistaken—and blessedly, this time, it’s not Gabriel’s drunken, out-of-tune butchering of the classics. No, this is something else entirely—a voice Castiel stopped hoping he’d hear again tonight several hours prior. 

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, unable to hold back a smile as he quickly shrugs his coat back over his shoulders and zips it up. Dean’s voice gets louder very quickly—it would appear that once again, he’s going for the dramatic, and Castiel can’t say that he’s upset about that at all. He decides to humor him, lifting the sash of the window by the fire escape more fully and waiting patiently inside. 

_ “Wherever you go, I'll be with you. Whatever you want, I'll give it to you.”  _

Castiel squints—what the hell is Dean singing? His sandy head of hair appears where the fire escape meets the landing, and he really puts his weight behind the song as he climbs the final steps.

_ “Whenever you need someone, to lay your heart and head upon, _

_ remember, after the fire, after all the rain, I will be the flame.”  _

Dean’s really going all out, jumping up onto the railing in a way that has Castiel slightly worried about a return visit to the ER in their near future, but— _ romance.  _ Turns out, he might just be a sucker for it. One hand clutching the fire escape above and the other clasped over his heart, Dean launches wholeheartedly into the next verse, only for a crushed soda can to come flying out of nowhere and hit him squarely in the head.

He pauses, stunned, eyes going wide like he can’t entirely process what just happened, melodic voice dissipating like steam into the cold night. For Castiel, the metallic glint of the Diet Coke can that sits perpetually on Gabriel’s crate-as-bedside table (now bouncing away on the iron grating) is a dead giveaway. 

“Shut the fuck up, Dean,” Gabe yells from behind his curtain, where he’s apparently retreated back from the window. “It’s two a.m., nobody cares about your real-life rom-com.”

“Sorry,” Dean replies ruefully, but his grin stretches from ear-to-ear as he hops down off of the railing with a thud.

“I was enjoying it,” a small voice pipes up, and Castiel sticks his head out the window, looking left to see Mrs. Baker peering out from her own apartment down the way. Her white curls ruffle in the chilly breeze. “Feel free to continue singing, Dean,” she adds, very obviously hopeful. 

“Next can is going up your ass,” Gabriel warns, not quietly.

Castiel can’t suppress his laugh as Dean flushes—not entirely from cold—and reaches out a hand, clearly meant to tug Castiel outside. He doesn’t hesitate, naturally—so goes Dean, so goes his nation.

“Merry Christmas ladies,” Dean replies genially to Mrs. Baker and her roommate, waving and winking as he yanks Castiel down the fire escape behind him faster than Cas has ever seen him move before. He stops outside the open window to his loft, the heat pouring out from inside just like Castiel’s own apartment. “Christmas miracle,” Dean remarks, jerking his head in that direction.

“Shut up,” Castiel replies with a wide smile. “That’s exactly what I said.” 

Dean ducks his head, cheeks flushing a little as he takes each of Castiel’s hands in one of his his own. “Cas,” he says softly, looking for all the world like he has a million things to say, and yet nothing else comes out.

Taking pity on him, Castiel decides to help Dean along. “I have your phone, by the way. How is Jess?” he prompts, nudging the side of Dean’s boot with his own toe. Dean immediately brightens, head snapping up to meet Castiel’s eyes, the excitement in his demeanor brimming and bubbling over. 

“Oh my god, Cas,” he says. “She’s pregnant.”

The world slows to a stop for a moment, and Castiel has to blink and shake his head twice before the news fully processes. “She—and everything is—”

“Everything is great,” Dean gushes, looking towards the sky with—if Castiel isn’t mistaken—a  _ tear  _ in his eye. “All the stress of the show—plus she’s been nauseous and not eating—she just needs to rest, get some fluids and food in her. Hospital’s keeping her overnight, Sam’s already practicing being a doting dad, getting her popsicles and shit. It’s so awesome, Cas,” he finishes wistfully. 

“You’re going to be an uncle,” Castiel says warmly, squeezing Dean’s hands. 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, dipping his head but still smiling like nothing in the world could bring him down. “Thing is—” he clears his throat. “Okay, this is going to sound dumb.”

“I doubt that very much,” Castiel tells him, lifting one set of joined hands and pressing a kiss to Dean’s knuckles. “If nothing else, I’m enjoying this version of you that isn’t afraid to blush.” Of course, that deepens the stain on Dean’s cheeks and sends him spluttering defensively.

“I’m not—”

Castiel leans forward to kiss him quiet. He’s tired of waiting, tired of holding back, tired of doing everything wrong and only missing Dean to show for it. He  _ likes  _ being easy with Dean, likes fitting into the space under his arm the way that he does. From the way Dean has been acting all night—from the look in his eyes during the finale song and his recent serenade—Castiel is fairly certain of where this conversation is headed. He reminds himself—there’s nothing  _ wrong  _ with making things easy for Dean, too. 

That’s the lesson in all of this, isn’t? Nothing about this had to be so damn  _ hard _ . 

“I wanted you to be there,” Dean says softly, while Castiel is still right in his space, so close their breath is clouding between them in the cold night air. His eyelashes flutter, soft and dark against his freckled cheeks as he takes a deep, stabilizing breath. “Sam and Jess were—and I just, I wished you were with me,” he says simply. 

Dean’s eyes open, and Castiel is caught— _ held— _ by shining emerald green. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers, while Castiel touches his cheek with both of their tangled hands, running knuckles down the edge of his jaw. “I love you. Of course, I love you. I should’ve told you earlier, should’ve said it right back to you when you told me.” He swallows, seems to steel his resolve. “I don’t wanna play games with you, sweetheart. No more games, okay?”

“No games,” Castiel reassures him, slightly tearful. He drops Dean’s hands to grab his face, while Dean’s go immediately to his waist. “You have me. I’ll be wherever you need me to be, from now on.” 

“Good,” Dean replies softly, catching his lips and holding on for several endless seconds. He sighs when he drifts back slightly, brushing their noses together. “Sammy’s kid deserves more than one uncle.” 

It’s Castiel’s turn to need to duck his head—pressing his forehead against Dean’s chest for a protracted moment until he can regain control of his emotions and the burn behind his eyes. He sniffles and looks up, finds Dean smiling warmly back, so much affection in his gaze. “He’ll have more than he can stand, you know,” Castiel warns. “They’ll be lucky if they can pry the child out of Pam’s arms, you know how she loves babies.” 

Dean huffs a laugh. “Kid’ll be lucky, then. Just like us.” 

The next breath Castiel takes in is ragged, his emotions still kind of going haywire, but there’s one thing he definitely knows for sure. “Dean,” Castiel says. “Can we  _ please  _ go the hell inside? It’s fucking  _ freezing  _ out here.”

Caught off guard, Dean tips his head back and laughs, but he nods and sits down to slide through the open window without complaint. Not that Castiel needs it, but he takes the hand Dean offers to hop down off of the ledge, not failing to notice the way Dean’s hands seem disinclined to leave his body for very long.

Inside the Winchesters’ loft, Castiel notes that it’s just as warm as his own apartment, maybe hotter. Truly, with Dean here now, he couldn’t have asked for a more perfect present. The space is as sparse as ever, but with a holiday-flair Castiel himself helped add just a few weeks prior. Dollar store string lights decorate every wall, stapled somewhat haphazardly as high as Castiel plus a chair could reach. As the only current source of light, they lend a soft, romantic glow to the room. A two-foot tall, pre-lit tree sits on the battered coffee table, several newspaper-wrapped gifts tucked hastily underneath.

Best of all, a giant light-up inflatable Santa—Gabriel, trash, Castiel didn’t ask—sits over in the far corner, bobbing gently in the breeze that’s wafting in from outside. The thing is taller than  _ Sam.  _

In the opposite corner, same as Gabriel’s “bedroom,” sits a double-sized box spring and mattress. It has no frame and the all-too familiar milk crates as bedside tables, but the bedding, at least, is somewhat indulgent for Dean’s meager budget. Castiel knows from experience that this is Dean’s living space—Sam has the actual bedroom that sits directly beneath Castiel’s, because naturally, Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. There isn’t so much as a privacy curtain or screen, but tonight, that finally doesn’t matter.

“You want a drink?” Dean calls over his shoulder as he walks across the loft to check the locks on the front door. Castiel doesn’t miss the way he slides the deadbolt across—hopefully Sam doesn’t try to get in before they wake up tomorrow. Dean is an angry sleeper—like a bear—and his natural reaction is to flail when he’s jolted from sleep unexpectedly. 

Considering that Castiel is hoping to sleep by Dean’s side, he wonders if he should be concerned about that. Perhaps he should wear a cup, or keep a defense pillow handy, at least. “No,” he replies belatedly after registering Dean’s question. “I’m quite content right now.”

And he is, Castiel realizes, as he pulls his jacket off and drapes it over a chair, following with his sweater before leaning down to unlace his boots. Dean surprises him by being  _ right there  _ when he straightens up, plastering himself unabashedly to Castiel’s back and resting his chin on his shoulder. 

“Me too,” Dean says softly, tightening his arms around Castiel’s abdomen and holding on. 

Still smiling ( _ might be permanent) _ , Castiel awkwardly finishes kicking off his boots without dislodging Dean before turning to face him. “I can’t believe you serenaded me with a Cheap Trick song,” he teases, sliding both palms up Dean’s chest and around his neck. Somewhere along the way, Dean’s lost his outerwear too, leaving them both in t-shirts and pants, and Castiel is  _ over  _ having anything in between them at all. He plucks at the offending material. “Take this off.”

“You didn’t like it?” Dean sounds affronted, even as he grabs the hem of his tee and tugs it over his head. “Listen, at this point I just assumed you’d wanna hear anything but  _ RENT.”  _

“True,” Castiel agrees, letting his fingers find Dean’s belt buckle and undoing it, quickly following with the button fly of his jeans before shoving them down. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” 

Eyelids heavy, Dean leans in and catches Castiel’s mouth, lingering for a long moment before nipping his bottom lip and exhaling a satisfied hum. His fingers drift down the outsides of Castiel’s arms as he stands there in his boxers, jeans pooled around the ankles of his adorable bow-legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

It’s  _ not,  _ not for them and not in general—Castiel would know—but there’s a certain sense of poetry and satisfaction that comes with being  _ warm  _ together for the first time in one of their normally-shitty apartments.

“I could sing it again,” Dean offers, but Castiel has other ideas.

His hands cup the sides of Dean’s neck, pushing up and into his hair, back down and over his muscular shoulders. He leans in to press a gentle kiss to Dean’s lips and—feeling brave—licks barely past his teeth. He’s not exactly intending to tease—though not opposed, either—just testing the waters.

“Perhaps you could sing later,” Castiel suggests pointedly, after he’s pulled away enough to look into Dean’s eyes.

Dean doesn’t answer at first, just lets his hands travel down Castiel’s sides to twist into the fabric of his t-shirt. “May I?” he asks, and Castiel nods. Dean stays close as the material gets swept past his face, is  _ right  _ there to wrap warm arms around Castiel’s bare waist and tug him in close for a deeper kiss. Dean’s free hand sweeps Cas’ hair away from his forehead, comes to rest at the nape of his neck as his tongue slides hopefully against Castiel’s. 

He keeps their chests pressed together as he urges Castiel backward towards the bed, working at his belt and the fastenings of his jeans as they move. Without meaning to, Castiel shivers, the hair on his arms raising from arousal and anticipation and— _ yes,  _ a swirl of worry over whether (yet again) he’s doing things  _ right. _

As if reading his mind, Dean shushes him, kissing over his jaw and his neck and back up to his cheek at the same time as he shoves Castiel’s jeans down his legs. “No expectations,” Dean tells him. “Whatever you’re worried about, don’t, okay?”

“Don’t want to let you down,” Castiel murmurs back, hiding his flushed face in the crook of Dean’s neck, relishing the way Dean’s hand knots possessively in his hair.

“Not possible,” Dean says fiercely. “No way. If there’s something you don’t wanna do, no big deal. Thousand other things we can try instead. Or, hell, we can just…” Dean gestures vaguely to the bed and then scratches his head somewhat sheepishly. “Cuddle?” he offers with a shrug that shouldn’t be so damn  _ cute _ . 

Castiel can’t help but melt, reaching out to yank Dean back in close and kiss him fiercely. “It’s not that I have reservations,” he tells Dean’s somewhat dazed expression during a pause in their making out. “It’s— _ I’m  _ not very experienced, and you—”

“ _I_ am more than happy to steer you around the curves,” Dean replies, eyes crinkling, and Castiel grins, pulling him down the last few feet onto the bed. The mattress bounces—it’s decent quality, despite lacking a frame and the fact that it slides a little on the box spring. Castiel couldn’t care less about any of that—all he can see is _Dean._

And Dean stays true to his word—he presses Castiel into the bedding and kisses his affection across his skin. Guiding,  _ showing,  _ never demanding anything in return. It could be embarrassing to feel like he has nothing to offer, but the fact is, Castiel  _ doesn’t  _ feel that way. When he wants to touch Dean, he does. When the urge to kiss him arises, he follows that, too. He learns how softly Dean’s hair slides through his fingers, how the pink around his freckles turns white under the pressure of his thumb, and what the weight of Dean’s body feels like pushing down against his. 

But most of all, it’s very clear to Castiel that Dean is  _ getting  _ something out of taking control in this moment. That he feels quite honored to be leading them both through this, ensuring that Castiel is comfortable and relaxed, and that what they’re doing feels  _ good.  _ Dean is softer than Castiel has ever seen him, sweet and gentle, his lips barely skipping even an inch of skin in their journey across. 

It’s easy to be patient when Dean is mapping every line and whirl of ink Castiel has with the tip of his tongue and the plush cushion of his mouth. His hands stay busy too, seemingly everywhere at once, both teasing and reassuring in their touches. Castiel easily contents himself with brushing his own palms over Dean’s back, mapping the muscles and bones of his shoulders and arms, squeezing the curve of his bicep, tracing the hairline at the base of his neck. 

There’s so much to learn and Castiel wants to know it all—wants to find out what makes Dean gasp and shake and shiver, what makes his ass clench and his eyes roll back and his toes curl—but everything,  _ everything _ in time.

He can be patient, he can trust that this is only the beginning.

Dean kneels in between his legs, pushing them apart to suck a massive purple hickey on the inside of Castiel’s thigh, sore to the touch, while his fingers tease and roll his balls. Dean licks over the mark gently when he’s done, apparently admiring the way the bruise sits squarely between a bee and a pink dahlia, petals open in full bloom. 

“Tattooed you,” he says proudly, as Castiel tries desperately not to show how affected he is just by Dean’s casual, playful touch and a little love biting. 

He swallows and nods, struggling to form coherent thoughts as Dean crawls up the length of his body once again. His green eyes are bright and mischievous, smile sly. Castiel has the feeling Dean knows exactly what he’s doing and is entirely pleased with himself. Well, two can play at that game. 

“I could get your name done next,” Castiel says casually, touching the tip of his index finger to his neck and drawing a line from below his ear to the middle of his throat. “ _ Dean.  _ Right here, where everyone could see it.” 

As expected, Dean freezes, eyes glazing over a little and mouth dropping open. It’s very obvious that he’s imagining the tattoo and everything that would come with it, and Castiel can’t help it, he snickers a little. In response, Dean swiftly shakes himself off and pouts. 

“Shut up,” he mutters. He dips his head to take Castiel’s right nipple in between his teeth and bites down— _ hard.  _

“Oh,” Castiel responds, cupping the back of Dean’s head and arching his back. “If that was supposed to discourage me—” 

Dean doesn’t waste any more time on  _ words,  _ just covers Castiel’s mouth with his own and kisses him in a way that Castiel’s never experienced or even  _ seen  _ outside of certain movies. “Fuck, Dean,” Castiel murmurs into his mouth. “I would, you know. Tattoo your name. It was a joke, but—”

Jerking back in surprise, something undefined flickers across Dean’s face, and Castiel suddenly  _ gets  _ it, gets  _ him,  _ just a little better. Dean is a tough man, but he does have one fear, and that’s being left behind. Being left  _ alone.  _ He’s built an entire life on caring for his brother just so that he’ll have someone to come home to, and now Sam is moving on, and Castiel has been  _ so  _ self-involved. 

What a shitty time to have such a revelation, naked and with their dicks sliding together wet and hard against their stomachs, but here they are. That  _ one  _ look on Dean’s face—how could Castiel have missed it?

Dean’s afraid of not being good enough to  _ keep.  _ Afraid of being  _ left.  _ Afraid that one day, he’ll turn around and the things he’s bravely allowed himself to care about will no longer be there. It’s why Dean didn’t chase him before, why he quit the Gas-N-Sip before he could learn his welcome was worn out. Why he was  _ so  _ reluctant to accept help or to consider anyone other than Sam  _ family _ . 

Yes, Castiel has come a long way over the last year—but so has  _ Dean,  _ and Castiel hasn’t given him  _ any  _ of the praise, recognition, or support that he deserves.

That’s a horrifying thought. Castiel scrambles to sit up, dragging a  _ very  _ confused and somewhat alarmed Dean roughly into his lap. 

“I wasn’t making light of your abandonment issues,” he says bluntly, and Dean’s eyes go wide. Dean needs a minute to recover—ducking his head, slapping a hand over his face and making a noise into his palm that is decidedly un-sexy. Castiel just waits patiently until he surfaces again.

“Okay,” Dean replies, once he drops his hand. His tone is resigned, but he doesn’t seem upset. In fact, he’s still sort of smiling, and he touches Castiel’s cheek kindly. “Thanks.” 

“I’m serious,” Castiel persists. “We’ve—we’ve said all the other things there are to say, but I  _ haven’t  _ said this, and I need to. You need to hear it. I won’t leave you.” When Dean glances away, Castiel grabs his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Dean,” he says sternly. “I  _ won’t  _ leave you. I’ll be here when you wake up in the morning, and for as many mornings as you can stand to have me around after that. Do you believe me?”

It takes a moment, but eventually, Dean nods and blinks away the tears he’s pretending aren’t gathering in his waterline. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. He sniffs, dragging his wrist across his nose before adding grudgingly, “But thanks for saying it.” 

“I love you,” Castiel tells him, hand dropping to the middle of Dean’s chest. “I’ll never get tired of having you.” 

Dean smiles, and finally turns his head to meet Castiel’s gaze. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something and then changes his mind, shaking his head softly. Before Castiel can ask, he’s surging forward, framing Castiel’s face with his hands and kissing him hard and with feeling. 

That’s enough—that’s how Dean best communicates, with his body—and Castiel accepts it, takes it all in with a fizzling pleasure that bubbles up in chest and makes him half-delirious with joy. “I would so get that tattoo,” he repeats, as Dean’s mouth works its way down his neck. 

“God, that’s so hot,” Dean replies, nipping and licking over the space Castiel had pointed to earlier. “I’d love it, Cas. You have no goddamn idea.”

“I’m getting the picture,” he gasps, slipping a hand down to squeeze Dean’s ass. 

Licking his lips, Dean pulls back and pecks Castiel on the lips before declaring, “I want you to fuck me, okay?” 

“Okay,” Castiel replies reflexively, mouth suddenly dry.  _ What the fuck does he know about— _

“Don’t worry,” Dean tells him, apparently reading his mind. Reaching over to the space in between his stacked crates and the mattress, he comes back holding a little leather pouch. “You can’t do it wrong, sunshine.” He grabs the side of Castiel’s face and looks him straight in the eyes. “I’ve got you.” 

“Kiss me, then,” Castiel replies, meeting Dean halfway when he leans down to do just that. 

Now, he’s not an idiot—Castiel’s watched porn, he lives with  _ Gabriel,  _ for God’s sake, he knows the mechanics of gay sex, but  _ knowing  _ is once again entirely different than  _ doing _ . 

Back when he was figuring himself out, Gabriel gave him a crash course on all things sexuality  _ and  _ sex. All the kinds, every different way and then some, far more information than Castiel  _ ever  _ needed to know or wanted to hear. Of course he protested, but Gabriel wasn’t hearing the word “no” (ironic, since there was an entire lecture on enthusiastic consent). Castiel humored him, because Gabriel had been a lighthouse in the storm of unlearning his upbringing, and because Gabriel shared several humiliating stories of naiveté that horrified Castiel enough to stifle any protests. 

Seemed like the sort of thing that might be better to have and never use, rather than one day need and not know.

Point being, Castiel is well aware of what goes into one man penetrating another, but that doesn’t translate to being in any way prepared to put that theoretical knowledge into action. Thankfully, this is where Dean taking the lead becomes necessary and relieving. He’s easy about the whole thing, working with the lube bottle one handed and opening himself up while kissing Castiel like it’s the sexiest thing in the world. 

That’s simple enough—Castiel’s more than happy to go along for the ride.

At one point, Dean uses his free hand to guide Castiel’s right around his softening cock, moaning and thrusting enthusiastically when Castiel’s fingers close around him. “Yeah, Cas,” Dean pants into his mouth, and Castiel knows he’s playing it up a little. He finds that sweet, makes him want to work hard and please Dean that way for real.

He will—he knows it’ll take time—but he  _ will.  _

For now, he does as Dean tells him, adding his own touch by rolling Dean’s balls in his other hand, breaking away from Dean’s mouth to dip his head down and kiss at the crown of his cock. Dean  _ groans  _ when he does that, tangles his fingers in Castiel’s hair immediately while shifting to balance himself upright on his knees.

Tentatively, Castiel takes as much of Dean as he can in his mouth, learning the salty-bitter tang of the fluid that drips from his slit and the intense musk of just  _ Dean  _ in his nose. Dean’s cock is satiny-soft, and Cas’ tongue traces the flat ridge of its head, the bumpy texture of the veins running up and down each side. He feels Dean’s hand tighten in his hair when he uses his hand to twist around the base, the purse of his lips dragging up and down the rest of the length. 

Castiel looks up, flicking his tongue into the opening at the tip, a trail of spit and precum following to his mouth and he can  _ feel  _ Dean’s cock pulse in his hand. 

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean breathes, eyes locked on his. Dean’s clean hand comes up to wipe away the mess on Castiel’s bottom lip with another soft groan. When he’s done, he kisses Castiel quickly and then shoves him down with a hand in the middle of his chest. “Stay there.”

Dean’s little bag of tricks has wipes in there too, and Dean cleans his other hand quickly before bracing it on the bed and straddling Castiel’s hips. “Knees up,” he says, “Feet on the mattress, hand holding the base of your cock.” He pauses and smirks. “Should’ve grabbed my cowboy hat.” 

Castiel laughs as he complies, and Dean leans forward, adjusting his knees and wiggling his way into a comfortable position. “So many ways we can do this,” he says quietly, hovering just above Castiel’s face. “God, Cas.” His eyes slip closed and Castiel can feel the very tip of his cock brushing against Dean’s slick, tight opening. Dean rocks back and forth before sinking down just slightly, both of them inhaling sharply when he pushes down and the crown of Castiel’s cock pops inside. 

“ _ Ungh, _ ” Dean groans, “ _ Never  _ get tired of that.” He leans down and kisses Castiel softly before sitting bolt upright and sliding all the way to the base, to where Cas’ hand is still wrapped tightly around himself, in an increasingly precarious attempt to not end this entire thing before they’ve even begun.

“ _ Dean,”  _ Castiel yelps, free hand flying out to grab Dean’s shoulder and hang on for dear life. “S-slow, please,” he pleads.

“Sorry,” Dean replies breathily, closing his eyes and swirling his hips a little as Castiel imagines dead bugs and roadkill for several seconds before daring to release his grip on himself. “It’s a thing.”

“Alright,” Castiel says with a nod, and almost immediately, Dean’s  _ tight, tight, so tight,  _ wet heat is holding him fully, and Castiel can barely breathe. There’s a hand wrapped around the back of his head again and Dean is  _ close— _ kissing him and soothing him and grinding his hips in a gentle, sensual way that— _ fuck— _ must be illegal.

It’s so much, so much for Castiel to focus on, and while he wishes he had the wherewithal to jerk Dean off, to kiss every accessible inch of his skin, to whisper how  _ beautiful,  _ how incredible his soul is, what a treasure he is to know and to be with—that just isn’t happening. Instead, Castiel babbles nonsense, digs his nails into Dean’s bicep so hard they leave marks, and comes with his eyes rolling back in his head with barely any warning.

As he floats back down to earth, panting and shaking and still  _ tingling  _ from head to toe, he nearly comes again at the sight that meets his eyes. Dean, hovering over him, head thrown back in ecstasy as his hand flies over his cock and he comes in warm, wet streaks across Castiel’s bare chest. 

When Dean is finished—equally breathless and gorgeously sated as he leans forward and gazes down—his mouth is still dropped temptingly open, and Castiel just isn’t  _ done,  _ numb as he might be _. _ He drags fingers that barely feel like his own through the mess on his chest and pops them in his mouth. Dean makes a truly satisfying sound as he doubles over and presses the heel of his hand to his softening cock. 

“Who  _ are  _ you?” he asks, before forgoing an answer in favor of chasing Castiel’s fingers and tongue with his own mouth. 

The wipes come in handy, since neither of them have the strength to find their way to the bathroom. Castiel  _ really  _ hopes Sam stays away, at least until Dean gives him the all-clear. Trash tossed carelessly on the floor, they lay side-by-side in Dean’s bed, the light from the city outside streaming in through the tall, curtainless windows. Across the glass, taped string lights twinkle merrily, and Castiel sighs with contentment.

“You know, my room has curtains,” he says conversationally. “Just saying. It seems probable that Sam and Jess may be...interested in moving in together, in having their own space. Perhaps you might like to have your own as well. Or, alternatively, if you simply became tired of your neighbors being able to watch you sleep...”

“You’re my neighbor,” Dean replies smugly. “You watch me sleep.”

“I don’t—” Dean turns his head to the side and raises an eyebrow, and Castiel relents.

“Perhaps on occasion,” Castiel concedes. “You are exceedingly attractive and peaceful when you sleep.” 

“Creeper,” Dean says with a grin, even as his hand snakes down in between them to twine their fingers together. 

“You love me,” Castiel replies without thinking, holding his breath when he realizes what he’s said. Now that the emotion of their dramatic reunion and the subsequent sexual tension has worn off significantly, perhaps Dean won’t—

“Yeah,” Dean says breathily, nosing at Castiel’s cheek until he dares to turn his head and accept the offered kiss. “I do.” He huffs a small laugh against Castiel’s lips. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Castiel replies warmly. “I think—it’s going to be a happy new year.” 

“I guess.”

“I  _ said _ , it’s going to be a happy new year!”

“You’re right!” 

“Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you’re going back to school,” Castiel jokes. Dean pauses as he opens his mouth to reply, and then shrugs. “You’re kidding. Dean, truly?”

“Maybe,” Dean hedges, eyes focused on the ceiling. “Someone’s gotta set an example for the newest little Winchester. Be the role model none of us ever had.” Castiel turns his body towards Dean, enthusiastically wrapping both arms and a leg around him. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “And I’ll be right here, no matter what you decide. You couldn’t do it wrong if you tried. Just follow your heart.” Dean’s head tips to the side again, and he smiles, bright and beautiful. “Don’t say it,” Castiel warns. 

“Already have,” Dean declares smugly, squeezing the arm that’s found its way around Castiel’s back in a half-assed hug. A horn honks outside, and someone yells an obscenity before slamming a car door. Castiel relaxes into Dean, finally feeling  _ happy,  _ like he’s truly home. “Everything else is just  _ RENT _ .” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a huge thank you to all of you who read along with this. I really wrote myself into a corner with the themes and such, and this was a real struggle for me to complete after the finale of the show aired. I didn't intend to do such a heavy-handed subversion of the shit we got, I *thought* I was going to have a Dean confession that I could light-heartedly parallel. LOL. Sweet summer child. Instead, here I am adding all kinds of emotion into the sex scene because _what the fuck_ , Dean deserves to hear that in every world?!?! Anyway, thank you guys for sticking with me and I hope you enjoyed the outcome. 
> 
> And thank you to Elanor, for being such a wonderful friend and teammate in building this fic. Y'all, she did so much behind the scenes work creating reference docs with the RENT themes paired with current social issues and helping me relate them back to the SPN characters' backstories(plus all the cameo stuff). It made things so much easier for me when writing became difficult on my end. Thank you, Elanor, and Jem and Jo, and I truly hope you guys liked the story that we made. <3

**Author's Note:**

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> 
> Required AO3 disclaimer: This story is not affiliated, associated, endorsed by, or in any way officially connected with Random Acts, or any of its subsidiaries or its affiliates. All donations have been paid directly to Random Acts, who do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in the stories.


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